


Sun and Moon

by TheOriginalPancake



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventuring, Anal Sex, Ass-Kicking, Awkward Romance, Ben Wa Balls, Best Friends, Between Two Worlds - Freeform, Cooking, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Does This Look Infected to You, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Farkas - Freeform, Flirty thirty and kicking Thalmor face, Gen, Gender Identity, Gore, Holy Crap is That a Plot, I am Honestly Feeling so Attacked Right Now, I do what I want, If You're Looking for Canon it Isn't Here, If one more troll attacks us I swear, I’m here to have fun, JUST KISS ALREADY, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Multi, Not My Fault, Not Sure What This is Doing Here But..You're Welcome, Oh My God, Okay Some of it is My Fault, Oral Sex, Other, Rescue Missions, Romance, That's Not How The Force Works, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Useless Vampires, We're Learning to Fly, Why is the Rum Gone?, You Have Been Warned, dry your tears on my six pack, elf kink, fluffy mcfluff fluff, giant hairy men romancing, graphic depictions of smexy times, holy shit language, like a lot, lots of walking, oops I killed someone, plot what plot?, smutty McSmutt Smutt, the author is evil, the maker can kiss my mage ass, the one true pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOriginalPancake/pseuds/TheOriginalPancake
Summary: "We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment and when it comes do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."As Hawke faces down the Nightmare demon alone in the Fade he knows that this must be the moment which Flemeth foretold.He knows that he will fall...but will he learn to fly?





	1. Out of the Fade and Into the Fire

The demon screamed.

The broad backed mage heard nothing but the crackling of his magic as it tore from his hand in a wild net of lightning. The blast hit the fear demon, driving it back, buying the others fleeing behind him another ten seconds or so. He took another step forward pulling another wash of burning electricity from the Fade that surrounded him and fired it at the demon.

His legs shook but he kept moving forward. 

He had to protect the Inquisitor at all costs.

_ This _, was it. 

The precipice that Flemeth had foretold.

Again Hawke’s magic surged from his outstretched hands. This time the Fade shimmered around him. It cracked and split like torn fabric, hastily stitching itself back together in hot white flashes of energy.

The mage could feel it. 

The very Veil around him shifting in response to the magic he summoned again and again. 

His hands felt burned and raw even as he called his magic once more. What did it matter now anyway? Why hold anything back? The others were gone, safe on the other side of the Veil and he...this would be the last thing he ever did. Why not, just once, allow his magic to flow freely? 

Amber eyes fell shut as the mage raised his arms. He felt the thick energy of the Fade around him and called it to him. He captured it and honed it to a point as though he were a glass lense and it the light of the sun. He focused the power between his hands, felt it building and building until his entire body vibrated with it. 

Garrett let go. 

There was an explosion, the light of it blinding. 

The mage felt the impact in his soul as the landscape around him shattered. 

And then, a smaller impact. 

The raven haired mage felt himself begin to fall even as his gaze swiveled down to his right side. His eyes widened as he found none other than Varric clutching him about the waist. The dwarf’s weight hurled them both towards the ground. 

But the ground was gone. 

Instead a tear in the Veil yawned beneath them. There was no way to prevent it so instead Garrett reached down and clutched his best friend tightly.

As they passed through the tear the temperature changed. 

Where the Fade had been a damp furnace, the duo suddenly found themselves falling like stones through bitingly cold air. The world a rushing white mass around them for a few heartstopping moments. Then their decent stopped as they plunged into snow the impact jostling them free of one another.

Garrett gasped as he tore himself free of of icy white chips. The big mage took a steadying breath and staggered to his feet. His eyes scanned the landscape surrounding him. There was nothing but snow. He shivered as he looked around wildly for Varric. 

The dwarf sat up just a few feet away, shaking his head. He looked around as he also stood up, his thick thighs barely clearing the top of the deep snow. The rogue dusted the snow from his shoulders as he cast his friend an uncertain grin. “Frostbacks?” He called over the roaring wind.

The big mage shrugged. “Probably,” he said as he moved towards his friend.

Hawke was perhaps two steps away when his foot came down and the duo heard the unmistakable pop of ice cracking. Neither of them moved, their eyes meeting in a frantic glance. Then the ground beneath them shifted down with a loud groan.

Hawke acted without thinking.

He grabbed onto the front of the dwarf’s leather harness and hurled him as far forward as he could. 

Varric landed in the snow some fifteen feet away and scrambled back around just in time to see the ground beneath the mage give way completely. At the same time Garrett leapt forward, arms outstretched. 

His fingers brushed the solid edge of the snowy earth but found no purchase. 

He fell, vanishing beyond the sheared off ledge without a sound. 

Varric lurched back towards the sheer ledge but then stopped himself. He clenched his hands into fists tightly as he resisted the urge to yell. It wouldn’t do Hawke any good for him to fall as well or trigger an avalanche. Instead the dwarf backed away from the ledge and made his way slowly along the cliff face searching for a way down.

After what seemed like ages Varric stumbled onto a shallow path. Hope gave him energy to press on following the barely there road through the whipping wind and snow. Then to his dismay the path began to curve further away from the cliff face. 

The rogue stood shifting his feet back and forth as he weighed his options. Did he follow the road and hope that he would stumble upon someone who could or would help him? Or should he risk blindly finding his own way down the cliff side?

His inner debate was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

The dwarf held his ground as suddenly a contingent of mounted warriors emerged from the storm. 

They halted their progress, the blond man at the front of the party eyeing the rogue curiously. They wore armor unlike any Varry had ever seen before which made him uneasy. But Hawke needed help so he steeled himself and waved in greeting. 

“Hello there! You gentlemen wouldn’t happen to know how to get down this cliff would you? My friend, he fell and I need to get to him.”

The blond glanced back at his companions. When he returned his gaze to the dwarf, Varric felt his heart sink. 

“I’m sorry friend, but the only way down safely is miles north, back towards Winterhold.”

Winterhold? Varric had never heard of such a place. 

“How many miles,” he asked even as he shivered in the harsh wind. 

The blond man reached back into his saddle bag and threw a roughspun cloak to the rogue.

“Your companion is dead. You will be too if you try walking back up the mountain.” 

“My friend is hard to kill,” Varric insisted, even as he pulled the fabric around his shoulders. “I will take my chances. I thank you for the cloak.” 

“I do not recognize the colors you wear,” the strange man said abruptly. “In fact, I find your entire appearance to be rather, strange.” 

Varric shrugged as his held out his hands palms up and fingers spread wide in a non threatening manner. “I am but a humble surface dwarf! A merchant. You sell more if you stand out.” 

The group before him suddenly burst into a flurry of whispers and wide eyes. Many curious glances fell on him making him even more uneasy. 

“Did you say dwarf? _You_ are a dwarf,” the blond asked eyes narrowed.

  
“I mean…isn’t it obvious?”

For a moment no one said anything. Then the blond nodded to the soldier’s on either side of him, “I know a king who would be very interested in meeting a...dwarf.” 

The two men dismounted and moved towards the rogue. 

“I’m not going anywhere without my friend.”

Varric’s voice was as icy as the landscape around him as his hands reached for the crossbow at his back, only to find that Bianca was gone.

Well, shit.

* * *

One moment Hawke was in freefall the next he was under water. 

It took every ounce of self control for him to resist the urge to gasp as the frigid water engulfed him. 

The mage kicked mightily until he suddenly collided with a sheet of ice. Panic gripped him as his lungs burned in his chest. The big mage swam around feeling for a break in the ice but found nothing. His lungs began to scream so Hawke did the only thing he could do, concentrate a force spell, and slam his fist upwards against the barrier of ice. Once. Twice. The third try it gave way.

Garrett surged through the opening, gasping and shaking as his wet body was exposed to the wicked blizzard once more. Determinedly he began to crawl his way across the thick ice towards the shore. By the time he reached land the big mage was shivering uncontrollably. 

He summoned a weak fire spell, cradling it in his hands against his chest as he tried to get his bearings. His eyes fell on the opening of a cave not too far away and after a moment’s pause he staggered back onto his feet and towards the cavern, knowing that if he stayed exposed to the savage wind he was done for certain. 

The mage managed to get inside the cave before his body began to succumb to the throws of hypothermia. 

With his lips blue and his body trembling, Hawke sank down against the wall of the cave. He tried to summon a larger flame but his magic sputtered. He had exerted himself beyond his means in the Fade and now he paid the price. His eyes briefly focused on the ceiling of the cave above him.

Was that a skeleton? 

The big man sighed as he closed his eyes and allowed the darkness to claim him. 

  
  


* * *

After delivering several black eyes and at least one broken finger Varric had finally been; knocked out, restrained and tossed unceremoniously onto the back of a horse.

He had awoken many hours later, an unfamiliar set of massive moons hanging in the now eerily calm night sky above him.

He sat in a bruised silence still bound beside a fire as the soldiers moved around him tending to their camp for the night. The dwarf listened carefully to the men and women around him as they spoke. 

Many of them talked about their families, the small simple things that had been lost when they joined the army. Ulfric’s army, a name that meant nothing to Varric. Neither did any mention of an enemy known to these soldiers as Imperials. 

The more he heard the more shocked Varric felt.

None of this made sense.

Maybe he had taken a hit to the head in the Fade and was just currently vividly dreaming?

That possibility was not so far fetched. It had happened before.

The other possibility Varric liked far less.

There was a chance that somehow he and Hawke had not only fallen through the Veil, but _ into _another realm. 

The very thought made Varric’s stomach churn. It sounded like just the kind of impossible shit that always seemed to happen to him when he was with Hawke. 

“Have you decided that you enjoy being upright yet, dwarf?”

Varric looked up just as the blond leader of the band of soldiers came to sit at his side. In his hands the man held a hunk of bread, cheese and some kind of dried meat. Varric let out a snort.

“Is my only other choice being tied down unconscious to the back of a horse?”

The blond smiled, “I am afraid so.”

Varric hummed low in his throat, “You’re driving a hard bargain.”

The warrior chuckled, “If it helps you make up your mind, when you’re upright you get fed.”

“The scales are tipping,” Varric said as he accepted the offered provisions. “And might I add, this is one of the most hospitable kidnappings I have ever been a part of.”

“The Stormcloaks aim to please.”

“Stormcloaks…” Varric repeated around a mouthful of food.

“We are the true sons and daughters of, Skyrim,” the blond said proudly. Then he fell silent, watching Varric eat without a word for a few minutes. “That you don’t already know about us is...surprising. We are one of the two sides of a civil war that touches even the Reach. And yet, you seem to know nothing of that as well...Where are you from, Dwarf, that you know nothing of Skyrim or her troubles?”

Shit.

Varric kept his eyes on his meal for a moment.

Nothing was making sense. Hawke, might be dead. 

He stole a glance up at the human beside him. 

The man’s eyes were questioning and intelligent, but also kind. Not that it entirely comforted him but he almost reminded him of Anders, before Justice got ahold of his mind. 

The truth then...the whole truth. 

What was the worst that could happen? They don’t believe it and what...knock him out again?

“What’s your name?”

“I am Ralof, of Riverwood.”

Varric shifted a hand towards Ralof, palm open. Ralof shook his hand then, another grin passing over his lips.

“Varric Tethras of...Kirkwall.

Ralof quirked a brow as he tasted the word, “Kirk-wall?”

Varric nodded, “Yeah, you wouldn’t have heard of it...it’s a long story how I ended up here with...with my friend.”

At that Ralof frowned. He rested a comforting hand on Varric’s shoulder.

“I am sorry about your friend, I can see that they were important to you. But trust me, had you remained on the road instead of coming with us, you would have died as well.”

Varric wasn’t ready to say Hawke was dead just yet, but he kept that to himself.

He cracked his neck as he polished off the rest of the bread. 

“Perhaps...now, you want to know where I’m from? Okay. I’ll tell you, but you aren’t going to believe me.” 

* * *

When Garrett awoke he was surrounded by warmth. The big mage groaned and buried his face more deeply into the plush blanket around him. It smelled like campfire smoke and mabari. The big mage sighed contentedly.

The blanket, sighed back. 

Hawke’s eyes flew open. 

He froze as he realized he was lying against a living breathing mountain of fur. His eyes slowly trailed around him, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. As he surveyed the skeleton frozen to the ceiling above him, he also came to realize that he wasn’t wearing anything other than a cloak. 

This was bad.

“Ah you are awake.”

The sound of a strange voice had Garrett jerking his head around.

“At ease, friend, you are safe.” 

Garrett blinked as he surveyed the owner of the voice. An elf with skin the color of gold sat across a low burning fire from where the mage lay. The elf gestured to a makeshift stand where Hawke’s clothes were currently hanging near the flames.

“These should be dry soon. Are you hungry?”

Hawke’s stomach growled in response. 

The elf chuckled, then ladled something out of the pot simmering by their feet, and handed it over to the nearly naked human. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said as he accepted the bowl of what looked like soup. He took a cursitory sip and then caught sight of the creature currently curled up behind him. 

A wolf, and a massive one at that, watched him with milky eyes. 

“Do not fear Farkas,” the elf said fondly. “He is my most trusted companion and shall bring you no harm lest you try to harm either of us.” 

Hawke swallowed a mouthful of broth then reached a tentative hand out towards the beast. 

Farkas sniffed at Hawke’s hand then pushed his muzzle into the mage’s open palm. Hawke reached up to scratch one of the canine’s ears, which caused one of the beast’s back legs to twitch in response.

“I should thank you,” Hawke said as he turned his attention back to the elf. “What is your name?”

“Ah yes, my name is Meron Valriss. Many refer to me as the Dragonborn.”

The way the elf said the title told Hawke that he should have known its significance.

He knew of the Warden and the Inquisitor...but he had never heard anything like the Dragonborn. The mage’s mind began to race. Had they gone forward in time somehow?

“And your name,” Meron asked. 

“Garrett Hawke, most people just call me Hawke,” the mage said bowing slightly at the waist, “at your service.”

“A pleasure,” Meron said inclining their head in return. “Where are heading? If we are traveling the same way, Farkas and I would be better company than the frost trolls littering the region.” 

Hawke suddenly remembered that he had not been alone. 

“Kaffas,” he hissed at himself. “Have you seen anyone else? I was not alone before my mishap. My friend was also with me. I am sure that after I fell he would have tried to make his way down here.”

The elf hummed thoughtfully. 

“No. No one has come down since you fell, then again, the only safe footpath down is miles back up the main road. Farkas, how do you feel about a little reconnaissance?”

The mountain of fur shifted, stretching out its limbs that Hawke could only gape at. Farkas moved to his feet and padded to the entrance of the cave. After pausing to sniff the wind the wolf bolted out into the blizzard.

Hawke finished off his meal and handed the empty bowl back over to the elf.

“Where does one find such a magnificent wolf,” Hawke asked.

“It was a strange series of events,” Meron hedged. “He is no mere wolf by the way, he is a Companion, from Jorrvaskr.”

Again, Hawke knew by the way Meron was saying this, it should mean something to him.

A moment of silence passed between the two then Merom quirked a brow as an understanding smile spreading over the elf’s face.

“You have no idea who I am or what I’m talking about do you?”

Hawke let out a loud sigh, his broad shoulders slumping as he nodded. 

“I am entirely lost...before you found me I was with my friend fighting a demon in the Fade and now he is missing and I am here with you and...I am beginning to think that passing through the Veil did more than just take us to a snowy mountain range.” 

“When we first found you Farkas said that he could not tell where you were from by your scent, which I found odd. Not to mention that the make of your robes are unlike any either of us had ever seen. I wondered if you were from Skyrim at all.”

“Two things,” Hawke said holding up two fingers. “First off, what is a Skyrim? And what do you mean Farkas, told you?”

Meron gestured with a sweeping hand all around them. “Skyrim is the province upon which you currently sit, one of the many found in Tamriel. And Farkas is not just a wolf, he is a werewolf.”

As if summoned by the utterance of his name the wolf in question suddenly appeared back in the entrance of the cave. He shook the snow from his pelt and strode towards the fire. With each step his body contorted until Hawke found himself looking up at a goliath of a man with milky white eyes.

Those eyes fell to the mage as the man smiled wickedly. 

Hawke realized he was staring slack jawed and quickly cleared his throat.

“I am so sorry for petting you like a puppy.”

“I like when people scratch my ears,” Farkas said laughing. “Most people are too worried about the teeth to get that close usually so really, it was my pleasure.” 

The man’s voice was deep and rich and it sent delicious chill racing along Hawke’s spine. 

Farkas sat down by the fire and took a few gulps from the ladle hanging from the cook pot. Steam puffed from between his lips when he exhaled between mouthfuls. Then his wiped his mouth and turned his gaze to Hawke as he said, “I didn’t see anyone on the road above but I did pick up on a scent kind of like yours. It vanished in a cloud of horses and soldiers though. Someone must have picked up your friend.” 

“When you say someone, what are the odds that the ‘someone’ would be friendly to a lone traveler?”

“Multiple horses this far north, probably Stormcloak soldiers. As long as your friend doesn’t start singing praises to the Empire he should be treated kindly enough. They might try to recruit him to their ranks as well I suppose.”

“Considering that I have no idea what the Empire is, I think he’ll be fine there...are these soldier’s kindly to other races?”

At that Meron winced.

“Is your friend an elf?”

“No, he is a dwarf.” 

Meron and Farkas’ eyebrows shot to their hairlines. The two shared a look then the elf cleared their throat.

“Did...did you say that your friend is a dwarf? As in a Dwemer?”

“Yes, he’s a dwarf...I have no idea what you mean by Dwemer though?”

“By the Eight...you really aren’t from here are you,” the elf said, sitting back to regard Hawke with curious eyes. “Hawke, dwem...dwarves disappeared from Tameriel nearly four-thousand years ago.”

“Well that’s...something.”

“Maybe he hit is head, “Farkas said to Meron. “Or do you think he’s just crazy?”

“I am _not_ crazy,” Hawke growled.

“No, I think not, “Meron agreed surveying Hawke carefully. “Tell us, Hawke, about where you are from and about how you came to be here.”

Hawke let out a long suffering sigh as he pressed his eyes closed.

It was almost too much to bear.

He was a stranger in an alien land. Sitting by a campfire with a werewolf and someone whose title was Dragonborn. He had lost Varric who had in all probability been captured. 

The mage opened his eyes and straightened his shoulders. Hawke leveled his gaze with Meron’s. 

“I’ll explain as best I can.”


	2. You Take the High Elf and I'll Take the True King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric travels with Ralof and the Stormcloak soldiers to Windhelm.  
Hawke learns about werewolf charm.

Ralof was a human after Varric’s own heart.

He had listened to the dwarf’s crazy tale and not immediately assumed that Varric was insane.

The blond was currently standing a few paces away from the dwarf, arms locked behind his back, feet braced apart as he stared out at the falling snow. He kind of reminded Varric of Cullen, and perhaps, one day he would be able to tell him that. 

At that moment however, Ralof needed a minute to himself in order to absorb everything he had just been told. 

Varric watched as the human muttered something to himself, shaking his head, before turning and walking back to reclaim his seat by the dwarf.

“I believe you,” he said sounding a bit awestruck. “But, a man of greater wisdom than I will be the final judge on the matter. We will ride at daybreak and should reach the capitol in a days time. There I will take you to Ulfric Stormcloak. He will know what to do with you. Perhaps he will even know a way to send you back to your own world.”

Varric nodded. 

It was...something. Shit he wasn’t ready to call it hope just yet but, something.

“Any chance you believe me enough to go back and help me look for Hawke?”

Ralof fell silent. Varric could see the pain in the human’s eyes as he said, “No. Believe me when I say that I am sorry. I cannot risk my men for the sake of one who fell into the sea. Please know that if it had been myself traveling alone, I would have helped you to look when we first met on the road.”

Yep, Ralof was this world’s version of Curly for sure.

Varric nodded understanding but hating the answer all the same. 

“So...you know about me and where I’m from, you want to fill me in on what’s going on here? Why the war? Who this Ulfric person is that you people all seem to revere?”

“I promise to tell you everything,” Ralof said as he shifted onto his feet. “But it will have to wait until tomorrow, I must tend to my people. Do not worry, it shall make the ride go much faster that way.” 

Varric nodded, as if he had any choice but to agree. He tugged his borrowed cloak more fully around his shoulders and moved his gaze up to the snow clouded sky overhead.

Whatever this place was, it was pretty. 

In an eerie I-don’t-belong-here kind of way.

When Ralof had shaken Varric awake at the crack of dawn the dwarf greeted the human with a dismayed, “I had hoped you were just a nightmare!”

The human had chuckled and taken Varric’s grumbling in stride as he was fed and then placed on horseback with one of the other soldiers.

Her name was Jenkka and if Varric hadn’t known better he would have thought the woman was a golem. She was large but it was her stony demeanor that had him making such a comparison. That, and her impressive set of plate armor made it feel as though he were riding against a boulder. 

‘_ Poor horse,’ _ Varric thought to himself as he watched the countryside pass them by.

It had stopped snowing at some point in the night so he could finally see what kind of area he had landed in. Massive snowy peaks jutted up towards a clear blue sky. The snow all around them twinkled but had begun to give way to clusters of exposed rocks and mud. The road before them sloped downward and after just a few hours of riding trees began to spring up, towering over them as they swayed in the mild breeze. 

“It sure is beautiful up here,” Varric said to Jenkka. “Are you from around here?”

The towering woman spared him a glance then moved her gaze back to the road ahead.

Varric sighed and was about to give up conversation when Jenkka said, “I am from Shor’s Stone. ‘Tis a small village in the Rift but if ya’ are what ya’ say, you’ldn’t know that. I worked the mines there for as long as I can remember. But when King Ulfric put the call out for soldiers I dropped my pick and went to Windhelm. I’ve been fighting ever since then.”

“Do you miss it? Your home?”

Jenkka shook her head, her thick blond braid falling over one shoulder. 

“This suits me better an’ besides. Skyrim is home to many. I fight so that we all can live as we like.”

“And the Empire? They want to tell people how to live?”

“Aye,” Jenkka snarled, “they do. They want ta’ tell people who ta’ pray to. Want ta’ stick their noses in our politics. I don’t care much for any fop in finery and the Empire would see some lady who never knew a hard day’s work tell us why we ain’t doing enough. Ulfric Stormcloak, he’s like any of us,” the warrior woman said waving a hand at the other soldier’s around her. “He has spilled his blood for Skyrim. He should be king an’ I’ll lay down my life ta’ see him on that throne.”

Varric nodded, something stirring in his chest.

This all rang too closely of the turmoil he had left behind. 

He smiled then. 

When he found Hawke again, and he _ would _ find him, it was going to take a miracle to keep them from getting sucked right into the middle of all of this, he just knew it.

The group descended further into the valley and a rushing river came into view, the roar of a waterfall could be heard from further up an adjacent path. Further along the road Varric could make out a mill, the figures of people walking between it and another building nearby.

“Anga’s Mill,” Jenkka said, her lofty voice startling Varric for a moment.

He looked back just in time to catch the warrior woman’s grin.

“It means that we are close. Only a few more hours to Windhelm now.”

As they drew closer to the mill, the workers halted their tasks and watched them warrily until they were able to see the colors the soldiers wore. Upon realizing that their visitors were Stormcloaks the workers let out a cry of welcome. 

From his place at the head of the group Ralof waved a hand in greeting. 

A woman with dark weathered skin moved to meet them on the road.

“Good day, Aeri,” Ralof called out, voice booming.

“And to you,” the woman said, her face lifting in a smile. “Are ye’ headed back to Windhelm?”

“Aye. We are all longing for a warm bed and a good meal. How goes the mill?”

“Anga’s Mill always pays her debts,” the woman said, sobering a little. “It has been fine. The Dragonborn ordered a few loads of lumber so that has coin flowing in.”

“The Dragonborn?” At that Ralof pulled his mount to a halt.

“Aye,” the woman called Aeri said softly.

“What’s a Dragonborn,” Varric asked Jenkka.

“The Dragonborn is one who ‘as the body of a mortal but the blood of a dragon. Or so the tale says. Ralof swears he met the Dragonborn once but you hear all sorts o’ things.”

Varric considered the notion of a person with dragon’s blood coursing through their veins as Ralof and Aeri continued to chat. Then he heard something over the breeze like the wings of a large bird.

Overhead a roar split the sky.

“Dragon,” Jenkka shouted as she drew her sword.

Horses skittered as a massive shadow passed over the mill. Then before Varric’s eyes the creature landed on top of Aeri’s house. Its claws dug into the thatch of the roof as the dragon opened its maw and hurled a cone of fire at the clustered soldiers. 

Jenkka whirled her horse around and urged it out of the path of the flames. She dismounted and after giving Varric a glance cut the bonds at his wrists.

“If ya’ run, I’ll hunt you down Dwemer,” she snarled before turning to run back towards the dragon. 

Most of the other soldiers had managed to escape the blast of flames and now danced around the hut, bows in hand, firing arrow after arrow at the dragon. Many of the simple iron shafts bounced away or splintered against the dragon’s hardened scales. 

What Varric wouldn’t have done to have Bianca right about then.

_ An explosive shot to the neck to get its attention. Follow up with a shot to the eye. Even if it doesn’t kill it, it will make the sucker put its head towards the ground. A warrior could make short work of it then _.

Varric looked around wildly. One of the mill workers stood not too far away, frozen in fear.

“Hey. Hey! You there. Is there a bow around here?”

The man seemed to jolt from his stupor and nodded then pointed at the hut.

“Great,” Varric groaned. Suddenly he heard Jenkka’s telltale shout. He looked back to the battle waging against the beast and found the warrior knocked back off her feet. 

The dragon leapt down off of the hut and landed near the scrambling warrior. 

Varric kicked the horse into a full gallop.

Jenkka gained her feet, blood pouring from a gash in her brow, and yelled up at the dragon as it reared back its head. 

Varric jumped from the horse, slamming into Jenkka and causing them both to fall back into the icy river, as the dragon’s jaws sliced down through the earth where the warrior had been standing. 

For a heart stopping moment Varric tumbled helplessly through the water. He did not know which way was up. His entire body clenched like a fist against the frigid water and he gasped in a lungful of the liquid. His cloak wrapped around him making him panic as he tried to fight free. Then he calmed as a sudden weariness crept over him. His eyes fell shut and his legs ceased kicking.

A hand fisted into his tunic and abruptly Varric was dragged back into the sunlight and open air. His mouth opened in a nonexistent gasp as his body signaled to him to cough and expel the water he had breathed in, but his muscles were still in shock from the cold and uncooperative.

“Fool!” A voice screamed at him, a shadow passing over his face.

A hand thumped against his chest spurring his diaphragm into action. 

Instinct caused the dwarf to roll onto his side fluid spurting between his lips as he coughed and coughed until he couldn’t breath from the action. 

The same strong hand gripped his shoulder as a voice demanded that he breath.

Another hand, softer this time, soothed over his hair.

Finally Varric managed to take in a shuddering rasp of air but his vision blurred.

“Shor’s balls, Aeri can we borrow your fire?”

Varric coughed a few more times trying to focus on Jenkka’s voice even as the world around him turned to black. 

* * *

  
  


“You think he’s telling the truth?”

Farkas’ gaze shifted from the mage trailing behind them to the elf at his side. 

Meron’s shoulders rolled back in a small shrug. 

“I speak in the tongue of dragons but I am not all knowing, Farkas. There isn’t a way to tell if what he says is true.”

“But you believe him, don’t ya?”

The elf took a moment to consider the werewolf’s question. Then he cast Farkas a look. “You are not going tell me that you do not think what he says is possible? After all that _ we _ have seen and done?”

Farkas’ mind roamed over the many adventures he had shared with the Dragonborn since agreeing to become his follower. He recalled a particular instance when Meron had picked up a book, and upon opening it, nearly been sucked into another realm by a mass of tentacles and eyeballs. 

The werewolf shuddered, “You’re right. Do ya think the demon he talks about could have been Hermaeus Mora?”  
“The thought crossed my mind,” Meron admitted. “I think the best we can do now is take him with us to the college. Perhaps the Arch-Mage there will have some insight.” 

“What about his friend, the dwemer? If it was Stormcloak soldiers that found him they would have taken him to Windhelm.”

Meron smiled tightly, the werewolf was right. 

“Then perhaps we shall have to visit the esteemed Ulfric Stormcloak after all.”

Farkas’ gaze was cool as he studied his companion’s face. Thus far Meron had avoided the City of Kings and Ulfric Stormcloak. 

The Dragonborn had no desire to side with either faction embroiled in the current civil war that was tearing apart the continent so there had been little reason to visit the hold. 

Especially when the city known for being unkind to Mer. 

“We could always help him get outfitted proper and then send him on his way ya’ know?”

Meron rolled his eyes at that suggestion.

“No, we cannot. Besides, having a mage at our backs will be a nice change. I am sure you tire of my meager healing abilities.”

Farkas snorted, “Perhaps a mage would be useful. ‘Ey, Mage,” the werewolf called over his shoulder. “How good of a spellman are you?”

Hawke fumbled his footing upon hearing Farkas call him ‘mage’. Fenris had commonly referred to him as such, but the way Farkas said it held no malice. It was a nice change. 

“I am quite accomplished,” Hawke said. “Will that be a problem?”

The Dragonborn paused their stride.

Meron turned to look back giving Hawke a strange look as Farkas asked, “Why would that be a problem?”

“Oh, err, where I’m from magic is basically illegal and mages are not allowed to just roam freely. I didn’t know if you needed me to hide my skills when we reach the city?”

Meron smiled sadly. “Not at all, Hawke. Here you are free to be as you are. Magic is just another tool. Anyone can use it should they desire to, with the right training and practice of course.”

“I don’t do magic,” Farkas said, then nodded to the Dragonborn, “Meron knows a little.”

“Interesting,” Hawke breathed. “In my world you either are born with the propensity or you are not. And there is only one place where magic is accepted freely. The rest of the world executes, imprisons or even goes so far as to sew our eyes and mouths shut to curb those born with the talent.”

Farkas’ frown was accompanied by a snarl. He couldn’t imagine being chained. Mutilated until the very thing which made him, _ him _was suppressed or destroyed.

“Anyone tries to do that to you while I’m around and I’ll tear their throat out.”

The protective statement was unexpected and Hawke’s eyes widened in response. The werewolf nodded firmly and Hawke knew then that Farkas absolutely meant it.

“Thank you,” the mage said, feeling a little breathless.

Meron’s eyes shifted between Farkas and Hawke. Then the Mer spun around and resumed walking. “Come, should we resist the urge to tarry we should reach Winterhold by nightfall.”

Farkas fell back to walk alongside Hawke as the light footed rogue lead from a small distance.

“It’s not fair,” the massive warrior grumbled, watching as Meron’s feet barely broke the crust of the snowy path. “Bein’ so nimble and all that. I’m glad you ain’t some twiggy mage or you two would be prancing happily ahead while I trudge through this crap by myself.” 

Hawke laughed, “I won’t mention the spells I know that could allow me to skitter over this snow like I was a merry little pebble then.”

The werewolf rolled his milky eyes, “Of course you do.”

“Are all, what is it your people are called, Nords? Are all Nords as big as you, Farkas?”

Farkas’ grin was all teeth. “Nah. I’m a big guy. Most Nords are pretty close to your size, maybe a touch smaller here and there.” 

“Huh…where I’m from, I’m usually the biggest man in the room.”

“Is that going to be a problem for you,” Farkas asked as he shot Hawke a sideways glance. “That I make you feel all dainty and whatever?”

Hawke’s eyes widened, “Who said _ anything _ about feeling dainty?”

“You ain’t denying it,” Farkas shot back with a wide grin. 

“You do _ not _ make me feel dainty,” the mage said earnestly. “I’m a big strong mage who can handle himself. I’ve never felt dainty in my life.”

This was not entirely the truth, Hawke supposed, though he kept it to himself. Dangling from the Arishok’s blade that fateful night in Kirkwall, that had made him feel _ dainty _...helpless and small.

“Fine,” Farkas said, drawing the mage from his memories. “I’ll let you go on thinking you’re not dainty an’ shit. Since it offends your manly senses so bad.” The werewolf then winked at Hawke, “Just remember that when we met. You were naked and curled up on me like I was your favorite blanket. Burrowed right down into my pelt, pulling my hair.”

Hawke gaped at the warrior. He was not used to being the recipient of this kind of flirting, was the werewolf flirting? He needed to start making new friends more often so he could tell the difference better. 

“I was unconscious!”

“Even better, that means it was instinct for you to just snuggle right up.”

Hawke groaned and threw his hands into the air.

But he was smiling.


	3. Inn Keeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric meets Ulfric Stormcloak. 
> 
> Hawke feasts with the Dragonborn and refocuses on reuniting with his old friend. Farkas might be a small distraction but it is nothing the mage can't handle.

It was getting dark and Hawke had to admit that he was wearing out. 

However he continued to stumble alongside Farkas without uttering any complaint, Meron still leading the way. 

Suddenly the elf halted and signaled for them to stop as well. 

For a moment Hawke listened and heard nothing but the wind whispering over the snow around them. Then he heard the gurgling roar of...well shit if he knew what would make a noise like that! Another answering sound sent a chill up the mage’s spine. 

He longed for a staff in that moment.

Farkas pressed a hand on Hawke’s arm, “Wait until Meron signals,” he whispered. “An’ don’t move.” 

The elf ahead of them slowly withdrew a bow from beneath a billowing cloak and deftly notched an arrow, pulling the cord back into a full draw. 

The bow was impressive, even in the fading light Hawke could see the intricate carvings etched along the body of the weapon. 

Over the lip of the next snowy hill three figures lumbered into view. For creatures so large they moved easily across the snowy terrain and they were headed right for their little group. Long limbs and, if Hawke’s gaze wasn’t playing tricks on him, multiple eyes.

“Trolls,” Farkas hissed under his breath. 

Well, trolls were something Hawke had never had to deal with before. 

He was getting to experience all sorts of new things in Skyrim. 

How exciting for him.

The werewolf at Hawke’s side slowly reached up and pulled his massive sword from its place at his back. Hawke _ really _ wished he had a staff but he steeled himself to face these creatures regardless. Afterall he didn’t need a weapon. 

He was one.

One of the trolls abruptly stopped. It huffed rapidly and Hawke realized it was sniffing the air. Had it caught their scent that quickly? 

Meron loosed the arrow. 

The arrow flew like a beam and plunged into the eye of the first troll, killing it instantly. There was a thunderous crackle of purple light that emitted from the troll’s corpse as it fell into the snow. Then the other two beasts roared and charged forward. 

Meron held firm, drawing and firing a second arrow, this time the shaft embedded in the shoulder of the closest creature slowing its charge. It was then that Farkas joined the fight.

The warrior thundered up the hill and past Meron as the elf drew yet another arrow.

The elf cast a glance back at the mage and called, “Fire, Hawke! They are weakened by fire!” 

Oh, Hawke could do fire. 

The mage grinned and used fade step to dash up the hill, surpassing Farkas by several feet. The creatures were nearly on top of him then, their tusky fang filled mouths open in matching roars of fury. 

Hawke summoned his magic and was shocked at how easily it flowed through him. Here where magic was not bound or shamed or hidden. He felt the flames lick up around him, summoned as easily as a parlor tick plume of smoke. He whirled the energy of the heat up into his hands and hurled it at the attacking trolls. 

The blast nearly incinerated the closest troll, who panicked, writhing in the afterburn of the explosion until it finally collapsed.

Farkas had caught up by the time the final beast reached Hawke. 

The werewolf hurled himself between the mage and the creature. With a battlecry that shuddered through Hawke’s bones the warrior’s first strike lobbed off one of the beast’s arms. Farkas’ second swing came lightening quick then nearly carving the creature in two from shoulder to waist.

The hillside became quiet again.

Hawke beamed at Farkas.

“That was...woah,” the werewolf breathed as he faced the mage fully.

That fire spell...The werewolf had never seen anything like it!

Meron moved to stand at Farkas’ side and nodded, “That was quite impressive,” the elf said. “I have never seen a human wield magic so masterfully. Not without the aid of a staff at least.”

“The barrier between magic and mage here, it is gossamer compared to Thedas! This is amazing!”

“You were amazing,” Farkas said, still sounding a bit awestruck.

Hawke laughed, rubbing a hand at the back of his head. 

“I don’t know about _ that _ but I am at least useful.”

“Yes, you would be ideal company in barrows,” Meron said, mind running over several crypts he and Farkas had found but had yet to explore. 

“Barrows,” Hawke said, testing the word. “That sounds incredibly creepy.”

“They are,” Meron assured the mage. “But one can get rich crawling through them. So long as you let me go first to disarm all of the traps the Nords left behind that is.”

The elf shot Farkas a pointed look.

The werewolf finally managed to shake himself out of his spectacular-display-of-magic-induced stupor. He settled his sword upon his back as he rolled his eyes at the Dragonborn.

“That was _ one _ time, Meron.”

“It’s _ every _ time,” the elf informed Hawke. 

“Over here! I can smell something burning!”

The trio all turned to find a group of armed individuals racing up the same hill that the trolls had come over. Meron stepped out to the front of their little group to meet the first sword wielding woman, hands held wide. 

“You,” she said eyeing them all warrily. “Are ye’ bandits? Winterhold has no time for more trouble,” she warned, sword still at the ready

“Be at ease my good guards, it is only I, the Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn,” the woman pushed back her helm and grinned. “Ha, ‘tis you! I shoulda known. You shouting my hillsides to rubble again?” 

Meron clasped then woman’s hand briefly. 

“Today I can honestly tell you that it wasn’t I whose power was on display.” The elf turned to wave a hand at Hawke. “My latest acquaintance is a mage of considerable skill.” 

“A mage eh, headed to the college then yeah? All well an’ good, s’long as he don’t go blowing anything up.”

“Only trolls,” Hawke assured the woman with a grin. “And other enemies the Dragonborn points me at.”

“Hmm. Right then. You all look like ya been walking the day away. C’mon, let’s get you settled at The Frozen Hearth.”

  
  
  


Farkas set down two brim filled tankards and inhaled deeply. 

Meron had outdone it and ordered a table full of food for them, along with a round of drinks for the entire inn. The elf smiled at the few other patrons who raised a toast to them before turning back around to the feast at hand. 

Hawke’s eyes were huge as they took in the spread before him.

His stomach made an eager noise and Farkas laughed as he reached forward to pull off a chunk of roasted goat leg. 

“You’d better stop staring and get to eating. We don’t wait around here.”

Meron had already piled a plate full of lavender dumplings, goat, a hunk of cheese and a few slices from the inn’s last ripe apple. A jug of spiced wine sat at the elf’s elbow, the glass beside it already half empty.

Garrett eagerly tucked into his own portion of goat. He moaned around his first mouthful as his hunger from the past two days fully awoke. Soon he was eating with the same fervor as his companions. 

“Where would you like to sleep tonight, Hawke,” Meron asked around a mouthful of apple and cheese. “The inn boasts a modest number of rooms and Farkas and I can surely double up, but I was not sure you would appreciate being left alone either?”

Hawke drained his tankard, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before turning to answer the elf. “I do not wish to impose myself upon either of you more than I must. You have already saved my life, and now I eat with you without a coin in my pocket to offer as…”

The elf’s hand on his arm made the mage fall silent. 

“You are not a burden, Hawke. And, I have more than enough coin if that is what you are worried about. You might have noticed that we happen to enjoy your company as well? It really isn’t any trouble so please, just let me take care of you.” 

That was a notion as foriegn to the big mage as trolls had been before that evening. 

Hawke grinned sheepishly, eyes on what remained of his dinner. 

“I’m used to being the one to take care of others, I do not mean to seem ungrateful.”

“I assure you that I do not view you as such,” Meron soothed, hand patting the mage’s burly shoulder. “Be at ease.”

“Yeah, Hawke, the Mer is _ loaded _,” Farkas chimed in. “We’ve done enough work and plundered enough crypts and caves and bandit hideouts that our coffers are fit to burst. Meron is having to finally cave in and build a house just to keep it all in, ain’t ya?”

Meron snorted, “I would keep that information a bit more quiet if you please?”

Farkas blinked, “Meron, look at me. No one is going to mess with you while I’m around, not here anyway. And look at you! You are decked out in the finest gear eating a feast tossing coin left and right ‘cause you think it’ll help the people here. They _already_ _know_, an’ I don’t think they care, as long as you keep bein’ so generous about it.” 

The elf rolled those green-golden eyes once more. “I’ll let you have Farkas for the night,” he informed Hawke seriously. “I could use a holiday from his endless pestering and jabs.”

“Are you whoring me out,” the werewolf asked sounding outraged. “And for the record you like having me around to talk to,” the werewolf informed the elf. A moment later Farkas found his feet and lumbered back towards the innkeepers bar. 

Hawke watched the warrior go and could not help but appreciate the other man’s physic. And his attitude. 

The mage was used to being surrounded by grim company when it came to warriors. Farkas was as lighthearted as he was straight forward. Hawke liked that. 

Hopefully not too straight forward though, just in case some of that flirtation was real...

“I take it that you have no objection to sharing a room with Farkas then,” Meron suddenly asked.

Hawke barely managed to prevent himself from jumping out of his own skin. He ripped his gaze away from Farkas’ broad shoulders and turned to face Meron who, of course, was grinning like a fox. 

The mage cleared his throat and attempted to will away the blush that was currently creeping over his cheeks. 

“Either of you would be fine,” Hawke finally managed to strangle out. 

“Oh, are we that interchangeable,” Meron asked, smile widening. “Because I haven’t caught you eyeing my backside like that and I was walking in front of you all day.”

“I...I have none of the words in my repertoire necessary to respond to that.”

The elf laughed mightily. 

A sudden hand smacked Hawke’s back then moved up to grip the junction between his right shoulder and his neck as Farkas’ low voice rumbled from above him.

“Are you being nice to our newfound friend? Don’t worry dainty mage, I’ll protect ya’ from the big bad Dragonborn!” 

Hawke was thankful that he was already flushed from his chest to his hairline. He growled and tipped his head back to glare up at the warrior and inform Farkas once again that he was _ not _ dainty.

The effect was completely ruined when Hawke noticed just how close to Farkas’ waist his face was. He focused on his glaring and tried not to notice just how nice the werewolf’s smile was. Or how nice he smelled.

Maker’s breath Hawke was in trouble here. He needed to get himself together. 

He needed to find Varric and figure out a way to get them home, period.

He did not need to find himself wound up in some dalliance. Especially when he was painfully aware of how bad he was at such interludes, of any kind. 

Hawke knew he liked men, and that concluded his knowledge on the subject. 

Oh sure he could, at times, flirt with the best of them. He was not unaware that he was relatively handsome. He had even managed to nearly bed Anders and Fenris back in Kirkwall. But he was a virgin and lacked the confidence that came from experience.

As old as he was one would have thought he could have managed a quick tumble by now.

Large warm fingers hooked up around Garrett’s throat, startling him from his thoughts as they swept up to lightly grasp his jaw.

Farkas was giving him an odd look.

“You okay? You drifted off there for a second.” 

Hawke pulled his face away, “I am fine. I just wish that Varric was here with me. I wish that I knew he was safe and warm with a good meal in his belly. He is my best friend...”

_ My only friend. _

  


* * *

  


Varric missed most of his initial arrival to the City of Kings. 

After being dried off as best as they could get him by Aeri’s fire, the Stormcloak soldiers had swaddled the supposed dwarf in their extra cloaks and ridden as swiftly as they could to the city. 

The entire event was mostly a blackened blur for Varric. The few times he had regained consciousness he had been being jostled either on or off a horse, or into and out of someone’s arms.

The Jarl had been informed of the soldier’s arrival and of their guest. 

Needless to say Ulfric was curious about the newest arrival in his city.

Nurelion had been summoned to the keep once Varric was settled, and soon after the alchemist’s arrival the unstopping shake that had taken hold of Varric’s body subsided. The dwarf had finally slipped into a restful slumber.

After the healer’s work was done he bowed and left the other inhabitants of the room alone. 

From her place at Varric’s bedside Jenkka watched the Jarl carefully as he stood among his advisors and Ralof in the spare room they had designated for the stranger’s recovery. 

“He told you that he was a dwemer,” Ulfric asked, one eyebrow raised as he turned to look at Ralof. 

“Aye, he did. Said it like he’d been introducing himself as such his whole life, my Jarl.” 

“And did you believe him?”

Ralof hesitated. 

“He seemed to be of sound mind, Jarl Ulfric. I have never seen a Dwemer myself, I have only read about them in books and heard of them in stories. But aye, I do believe him. He tells an extraordinary tale about how he and his friend came to be here.”

“There is another?”

“No, the other was a man. As Varric tells it, his friend fell into the Sea of Ghosts. We did not search for the body but that is how we came to find Varric here. He was trying to find a way down the glacier to look for his friend on his own.”

“Hmm,” Ulfric hummed thoughtfully. 

“He saved my life,” Jenkka blurted out, quickly amending her outburst with, “my Jarl.”

“He did?”

“There was a dragon that attacked us at Anga’s Mill,” Ralof supplied. “Jenkka was nearly snapped up in the creatures jaws but Varric leapt to her defense.”

“He pushed me outta the way,” Jenkka interjected once more. “We landed in the river and he was just about washed away. That’s how he got so sick. The cold water an’ all.” 

“Well, he may turn out to be a madman, but I cannot ignore the bravery of someone who saved one of my own soldiers. He is welcome to remain here until he awakens. When he does I shall hold a private audience with him. We will get to the bottom of this matter of Dwemer returned to Skyrim and people falling from the sky.”

“Jarl Ulfric, could I stay,” Jenkka asked hesitantly. “With ‘im? I owe him my life an’ if he ain’t lying then this is all right strange to ‘im. I think it would help for me to be here when he wakes up.”

“That is a sound idea, Jenkka Stone Singer,” Ulfric said nodding. “You will report to myself or Galmar as soon as this Varric awakens.”

“Yes, my Jarl!”

  


Varric’s head felt as if it had been crushed, reinflated by some absurd blood magic ritual and then crushed again. His body felt as if it had been trampled by a stampede of druffalo wearing heels. And he knew, he just knew, that somehow this meant he had dreamed up the whole interlude of falling through the fade, fighting dragons...all of that shit.

He’d obviously gotten drunk with the Chargers and now he was paying the price.

That’s what you got though he guessed, drinking the stuff a Qunari drinks.

The rogue’s hopes of a hangover were dashed when a grough female voice asked, “Are ye’ awake, Dwemer?”

He _ knew _ that voice and it unfortunately belonged to only one woman, that he knew of anyway. 

Varric grunted and slowly opened his eyes.

Jenkka was hovering over him a severe frown on her face.

“Varric, can ye’ hear me?”

“Yeah yeah, I hear you.”

With a tenderness he had not expected Jenkka bent to assist Varric in moving up into a sitting position. She then turned and produced a cup of water which she held to his lips.

“Drink,” she ordered. 

Varric complied, though the throbbing of his head protested even the small motion of swallowing. When the water was gone Jenkka returned the cup to the table beside her.

“I thought ye’ were dead, Dwemer. Ye’ shouldn’t ‘ave thrown yourself inta’ the water like that. Don’t ye’ know that snow means the water be cold as the ice itself?”

“And let my new favorite Nord get eaten by a dragon? Never! It was a good choice,” Varric said, waving a hand at the warrior. “And I’d do it again. But maybe not until my head stops hurting. Maker’s balls.” 

“Ye’ were very brave,” Jenkka said softly then and Varric started at the emotion in the woman’s voice. “Ye’ didna’ ‘ave to do it, but ye’ did and ye’ saved my life. I owe you a great debt.”

“Nooope. Let me stop you right there my fair lady. You don’t owe me anything. I’m too old for blood oaths of valor and all that shit.” 

If it was possible Jenkka’s frown deepened. 

“You did save my life an’ I do owe ye’ the return of the favor. I will repay you.” 

“Fine, repay me by living through this war-thing you people have going on, and settle down with some nice guy and have ten giant warrior babies with him. How about that?”

Jenkka blushed and took up a braced stance. 

“The Jarl would see you now that ye’ have woken. I can go tell ‘im that you’re awake or I c’n take ye’ to ‘im? Since ye’ bein’ so agreeable I’ll even let ye’ pick.”

“Is that sass, coming from you? Jenkka, my dearest lady, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

“The only thing sweet is gunna be ye’r arse after I boil you and turn ye’ into a cream treat. Have it ye’r way then _ dwarf _.”

That said the warrior spun around and took a step towards the door.

“Wait,” Varric groaned. “I’ll get up. I’d rather meet whatever a Jarl is standing up.”

As Varric gained his feet Jenkka turned back to face him.

“There be nine holds in all of Skyrim. Each ‘as a Jarl to look over it. Ulfric is the Jarl of Eastmarch as was ‘is father.”

“Huh...well,” Varric slapped his hands together and attempted to smooth his tunic. “That sounds like I should be better dressed for the occasion.”

“Ye’r fine enough,” Jenkka sighed. “Are ye’ feelin’ well enough ta’ walk?”

Varric quirked a brow at that question.

“If I were not I could crawl I suppose?”

Jenkka chuckled, surprising Varric. “Or I could carry ye’ as I did from the mill.”

As the warrior led the way out into the hallway beyond Varric let out a long suffering groan.

“You carried me the whole way here? Didn’t your arms get tired?”

Jenkka shrugged as she pushed through a doorway. “I’ve carried heavier men than ye’. It helps that ye’ are a wee bit shorter than most.” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I’m big…” The warrior shoved through another door that opened into a long chamber which housed a table that looked ready to seat fifty people. At the end of the long room was a throne carved of stone and atop it a severe looking man.

“Where it counts,” Varric finished in a softer voice. He cleared his throat as he paused his stride. “That would be Ulfric I take it?”

“Come closer,” the man thundered, his voice echoing off the stone around them. 

_ This guy’s voice is almost as deep as Fenris’. Good thing Hawke isn’t here. He’s a sucker for guys with low voices. _

Jenkka nudged Varric back into motion and together they strode towards the throne. As they neared Varric noticed another man standing just off to the side of the throne. He was wearing the pelt of a bear on his head and Varric decided that somehow that was immensely funny, definitely more so than the giant battle axe at the man’s back.

“Jenkka, you may take your leave. Go be with your brothers and sisters in arms, I will attend to the matter of our visitor.” 

For a moment the warrior hesitated. 

Varric gently kicked her ankle and when she looked down at him, he smiled reassuringly.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve already been; ripped out of my own world, dumped in the middle of a blizzard, watched my best friend die, been captured, nearly killed by a dragon and then dunked in freezing cold water. There’s not much else they can do to me.”

_ I hope. _

Jenkka cast a glance at Ulfric before nodding back to Varric.

“Aye. I’ll see ye’ later then, Dwemer. My Jarl,” she added bowing to Ulfric before marching out of the room.

Varric resisted the urge to flinch when he heard the door shut behind her. 

For a moment he and the man called Ulfric just looked at one another. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like to the human. He knew he’d definitely made better entrances. 

Hopefully he could make up for his lack of flare in the exit scene later.

“Before you ask, since it seems to be the thing people keep getting hung up on the answer is yes. I am a dwarf er, or a dwemer, whatever it is you people call my people in this world.”

“Bite your impertinent tongue,” the man wearing the bear bellowed.

Ulfric held a hand out to silence the other Nord.

“And how am I to know if what you say is true?”

Varric shrugged, “I’ve not had the pleasure of proving my existence to many people. I guess that means the truth is completely up to your discretion, like any other prince or politician.”

The man with the bear took a threatening step forward and Varric decided after two days of shit he had had enough. 

“Oh what are you going to do? Dip me in hot oil or just carve me up with that axe? I’ve faced some of the craziest most evil people that have ever come to be back where I’m from. So either _ do _ something about it or back off and let me have this conversation with the big man actually in charge around here!”

Ulfric could not quite suppress his smile.

The Nord rose from his seat and descended the small set of stairs until he stood directly in front of Varric. 

The dwarf refused to crane his neck back so instead he stared up at the human from behind half hooded eyes.

“We shall see if you are to be trusted in the days to come, Dwemer. But you saved the life of Jenkka Stone Singer, and I would not see that action go without reward. You shall remain here in Windhelm and I shall see you housed under my roof until we get the rest of this matter sorted out.”

“Does that mean you believe I am what I say then?”

Ulfric nodded.

Varric allowed a little of the tension to shed from his shoulders. 

Something told him that this Ulfric didn’t believe him as entirely as he was letting on, but this was a chance.

And Varric sure as hell wasn't going to waste it.


	4. Hawke Goes to College

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where there’s a will there’s a Varric seizing the opportunity!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure that I am satisfied with this chapter and might revisit it at some point. However, in the interest of pushing forward here we go!

After dismissing the strange little man to return to his chambers Ulfric and Galmar stood in silence watching until Varric was out of sight. As soon as they were alone Galmar Stonefist turned to quirk a brow at his Jarl. 

“Tell me that you do not actually believe his claim?”

Ulfric snorted loudly. “Of course I don’t, does he look anything like a Mer to you? He might be able to fool people like Ralof and Jenkka who have never done more than hear fanciful tales about the Dwemer of old, but not I. He must be a spy sent by the Empire. Why they would send someone like that, spinning such a foolish tale, I cannot even begin to understand.”

Galmar grinned, “What do you want to do with this _ Varric _ then?”

“Have your men watch him for now. Let him think he is free to walk my city’s streets but not a step beyond. And send someone to investigate where Ralof says they found him. If there is another involved in this mad scheme, I would have them found and brought to me as well. And Galmar, if he tries to do anything funny, you know what to do.”

Galmar saluted his King with a fist pressed to his chest and nodded.

  


Varric made it back to his room, shut the door and sighed, “Well, shit.”

He couldn’t just stay there and wait for these stupid humans to get over whatever their hang up over his race was. Hawke needed him, and now that he was free of bonds and watchful eyes, this was his chance to get back to him.

Varric had no idea where he was, he had no supplies, no money or contacts to speak of. Just the kind of odds he liked! 

He hastily stripped the bed of it’s blankets and furs and tied a hasty makeshift rope. He grabbed two candlesticks that had been left on a side table and moved to the room’s single window. 

The rogue looked out and saw that a walkway was more than several yards below him.

Well, he had done more insane things than this.

Usually Hawke was there too.

Varric pushed that thought aside and tossed the makeshift rope out the window and down the side of the keep. He took one of the candlesticks between his teeth and with the other clutched in his left hand slid out into the cold. Inch by inch he let himself down the rope, prepared for it to snap or come untied at any moment. 

When he reached the end of the last blanket Varric shifted his grip and rammed the first candlestick into an opening in the stone.

_ Please hold, _ he begged the candlestick as he let go.

Quickly he ripped the second candlestick from his teeth and impaled it in another crevasse as well. When they did not immediately snap in half beneath his weight, Varric took it as a sign that this was the right decision. 

He stabbed a path the rest of the way down the ice slicked stone until at last he was able to drop down onto the walkway.

Varric huffed a breath and began to make his way forward. He shifted his way through several enclosed streets like a shadow. Night was falling and that meant if he could just get out of the city he might be able to find somewhere to hide. 

Perhaps he could find sanctuary at the mill where the dragon had attacked?

Never mind that he had no idea how to get there. 

He came to an open area with, what looked like, a tavern seated in the middle of it. Beyond the merry looking building was a massive gate. 

It had to be the way out.

Varric pulled his cloak more tightly around him and shuffled towards the gate. He didn’t see any guards and his luck seemed to be holding out. 

Until he saw the elf.

She stood alone, two men facing her. Her eyes were troubled as one of the men drew close and spat in her face.

“You come here where you’re not wanted, you eat our food, you pollute our city with your stink and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!”

The elven woman did not flinch as she said calmly, “We haven’t taken a side because it’s not our fight.”

The second man sneered as he placed a hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Hey, maybe the reason these grey-skins don’t help in the war is because they’re Imperial spies?”

At that the woman’s eyes briefly widened, “Imperial spies? Yout can’t be serious?”

The first human’s face twisted in a vicious grin. “Maybe we’ll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are.”

“Takes a couple of really big men to harass a woman alone on the streets at night.”

Upon hearing Varric’s voice, both Nords turned to face him. 

For a moment they both looked slightly surprised to see him, then the leader of the duo threw back his head and laughed. 

“You had best run back to your ma’ and da’ little one. The streets ain’t safe at night.” 

Varric would have given anything to have his crossbow right then.

He wouldn’t have wasted any time shooting these pigs in their small bits. 

But, alas, for now he had to do everything the old fashioned way.

“Back off, or you’re going to regret it,” Varric warned the men. He was happy to see that the elf had taken full advantage of his distraction and scurried off into the night. Perfect, with her out of harm’s way, it hardly mattered if these two drunks pummeled him. Not that Varric intended to be the one who wound up face down in the street. He might have been short but he hadn’t grown up in the Merchant Guild and learned nothing. 

The men moved towards Varric, the more vocal one stepping right up to him.

“A hundred septims says I can take you, right here and now.” 

Varric had no idea if that was a lot of coin or not in this realm, but hey, it was more than he had on him.

“You’re on,” he snarled as he pulled up his fists. “But just so you know, I’m in a hurry.” 

Five minutes later Varric whistled a merry tune, a bag of a hundred gold clinking against his hip. He had left the Nord behind with; a broken eye socket, a cracked rib and his balls kicked up into his throat. 

All things considered, this was Varric’s favorite escape yet. 

He shoved his way out of the main gate and made his way down the long stone bridge. Warrily he eyed the guards that patrolled the walkway above him, but none of them paid him any mind. When he emerged on the other side of the bridge, he realized that he was at a crossroads. 

“Blighted tits,” he grumbled as he attempted to figure out which way he needed to go.

Ralof had mentioned a city when they had first met, what was it...Winterhold! Surely there was a sign nearby he could look at?

“Hello, friend, are ye’ needing a ride?”

Varric turned to see a man seated on the driver’s bench of an empty wagon. The man grinned at him in the moonlight. “If ye’ have the coin I have the carriage.”

“Can you take me to Winterhold?”

“For fifty septims, I can.”

Half of his satchel spent already?

Beggars can't be choosers, he supposed. 

“Sounds good,” Varric said striding over to the wagon. He counted out the coin and handed it over to the driver.

“Climb in back,” the man said happily. “The name’s Alfarinn, should you be of a mind to chat as we go.”

Once Varric was settled Alfarinn clicked his horse into motion and they were off. 

“Are ye’ headed to the College then?”

“The College?”

Alfarinn cast a glance back over his shoulder, “The Mage College…”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s where I’m headed. I’ve got a friend up there,” Varric said easily. 

And for all he knew it was true.

A college for mages eh?

That sounded like the perfect place for Hawke. 

* * *

  


Even with his belly stuffed full and after walking up and down mountains all day Hawke was having a hard time getting to sleep. It seemed that as soon as he drifted off a nightmare would asail him and he would awaken in a cold sweat. 

He tossed and turned for hours.

A sudden hand on his shoulder made the mage jump.

“You okay,” a deep voice rumbled.

The mage hissed out a breath as he nodded, without turning to face Farkas. 

“You’re quiet for someone so big,” the mage said accusingly.

Farkas chuckled as he rested his weight on the edge of Hawke’s bed.

“Thanks, I get that a lot. Can I get ya’ anything to help? Or do you want to talk? It’s better than just laying there wound up as tight as spring.”

Hawke sighed and nodded. The warrior was right. He sat up and attempted to ignore his proximity to the other man and the effect it was having on him. 

“You’re worried about your friend,” Farkas stated.

Hawke nodded, “He’s all I have.”

“You don’t have any family?”

“No, they...they all died years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Farkas said. “I have a brother. He’s a pain but I can’t imagine not having him around to be one. We’re twins,” he added when Hawke remained silent.

The mage smiled but it was full of sorrow.

“I had two younger siblings who were twins,” Hawke said.

“You were the oldest?”

“Yes...I have to find Varric, Farkas. I can’t let anything happen to him!”

The way the mage spoke about this Varric told the werewolf everything. Hawke obviously loved him deeply.

Farkas didn’t know why that sent a sliver of disappointment shivering into his gullet, but it did. He shoved that thought aside and got to his feet.

“Well, if we aren’t going to sleep, do you want to go sit by the fire in the main room?”

“I can go alone. You were sleeping just fine until my thrashing woke you…”

“Hawke,” Farkas’ voice was as firm as the hand that wrapped around the mage’s shoulder. “Ya’ can stop pushing me and Meron away. You need help, we’re here. You’re part of the team now, at least until we find your Varric for you...maybe longer if you need help finding a way home. Either way, I’m going with you. And I’ll haul you out there over my shoulder if ya’ so much as look like you’re going to argue.”

Hawke rolled his eyes, even though a little of the sorrow slipped from his heart. 

“Contrary to what you seem to believe I am in fact a large man. I have never, in my adult life, been hoisted over anyone’s shoulder and if you tried Farkas I’d…”

Farkas hoisted the mage over his shoulder and strode out into the main room of the inn. 

The warrior deposited the flushed mage into a chair before comendering the empty seat beside him. He shot Hawke a mischievous smirk as he said, “What was that? I coulda’ swore you were about to threaten me or something?”

Hawke was doing his best to try and quit turning crimson, to no avail. 

He glared at the werewolf as he grumbled, “I would set you ablaze if it wouldn’t earn me the ire of Meron.”

“And here I thought I was your favorite! Oh well. Do you want something to drink? Maybe something warm? Might help you start to get drowsy.”

“Sure,” Hawke said with a shrug.

Farkas abandoned his seat briefly, when he returned he held two tankards and a kettle of something steaming. He poured two cups then set the kettle on the stone wall that housed the flames which warmed the inn.

He turned and handed Hawke his cup. The mage accepted it with a muted thank you. He smelled the brown liquid swirling in the tankard and raised a brow.

“Is there chocolate in this?”

“Yeah,” Farkas said as he sipped from his own tankard. “Hot milk poured over some bits of the stuff. It all melts together, sweet and creamy. Tastes great and warms you up all at the same time. Try it.”

The werewolf watched as Hawke took a hesitant sip. The mage hummed low in his throat, swallowing a mouthful of the liquid and licking his lips clear of the sweet foam.

“This is delicious!”

“Yeah,” Farkas breathed as he tore his gaze away from the mage’s mouth. “I like to have it now and then as a treat. Meron had never had it either when I met him.”

“How does one meet the Dragonborn?”

Farkas huffed out a laugh. 

“Well the _ first _ time I met Meron, I was fighting a giant with my shield siblings. We nearly had the thing down as it was but out of nowhere an arrow lodged itself in the thing’s throat. And there was this Mer, scrawny as could be but with nothing but fight in their eyes. Impressed the hell out of me anyway.”

“Meron is petite,” Hawke agreed.

Farkas shrugged, “Comes in handy being little sometimes. Sometimes, it helps to be big.”

“You two do seem to make a perfect team.”

“Yeah,” the werewolf smiled as he thought of his friend. “The Mer beat my brother in a fist fight and Kodlak, the leader of the Companions, sees something great in Meron, outside of being the Dragonborn I mean. So when we ain’t traveling all of Skyrim we both bunk with the Companions in Whiterun. Do some jobs for the Inner Circle and the Jarl here and there. Meron gets around.”

“Tell me of one of your adventures,” Hawke asked as he settled back in his chair.

“Alright,” Farkas smiled as he allowed his gaze to meet with the mage’s. “I’ll tell you about how Meron found out that I’m a werewolf.”

Farkas spun his tale as elaborately as he could, beginning with the retelling of the fist fight between the Mer and his brother. He kept his voice low and watched as the mage’s eyes slowly became hooded. By the time the kettle sat empty, Hawke’s eyes had fallen shut. 

Farkas hadn’t even gotten to the part where he’d taken on three vampires single handed and won. Oh well. The mage’s breathing was finally deep and even. And the sun had not yet started to climb into the sky. Farkas debated risking waking the mage and finally decided it would probably be better to try and get Hawke into a bed. 

Slowly he shifted the sleeping mage up into his arms and carried him back to their shared room. He laid Hawke back down and tucked a fur over the mage’s shoulders.

Hawke let out a small sound in his sleep and Farkas lifted a hand to stroke his fingers through the mage’s thick mop of black hair. Hawke sighed and settled back into his slumber.

Farkas felt a small flutter in his chest. It felt good to be able to put the mage at ease like this. He slipped his hand away and climbed back into his own bed.

Tomorrow, Meron would send a bird to the Stormcloak camp, and they would be one step closer to reuniting Hawke with his Varric_ . _

  


Hawke awoke to sunlight filtering in from overhead. He groaned as he stretched out on his bed and the tangle of furs around him. 

Suddenly it struck him that he did not remember walking back to bed…

Farkas.

Of course the werewolf had carried him there and tucked him in. 

Hawke ground the heels of his hands against his eyes and forced himself to sit up. The bed on the other side of the room lay empty.

The mage hastily gathered himself and exited the room, eyes scanning the main room of the inn for either the Dragonborn or Farkas.

“Your friends went into town,” a nearby voice said. 

Hawke turned to find the innkeeper nodding at him from his post behind the bar. “Yer’ welcome to remain here until they return,” the man added. 

“I think that I shall join them in town, thank you though.”

That said, Hawke made his way to the door and stepped out into Winterhold. 

The town had obviously seen better days. The people he passed looked as though they lived a hard life. So far up in the mountains, cut off from primary trade caravans and the like. 

There was a history here though. Hawke could feel it in the bones of the buildings around him. He wandered aimlessly. Noting a small shop on one side of the street. He rounded a bend in the street and his eyes widened as they came to rest on the massive stone bridge suspended before him.

The walkway looked treacherous and was in the obvious stages of disrepair and neglect. It led out to what looked like a keep built atop a pillar of rock that jutted up from the sea far below.

Well, that was where Meron had said they would send the bird from. 

Hawke made his way up onto the bridge and traversed its precarious path until he reached the grounds of the college.

Mages came and went all around him. Some openly practicing spells in the outer yard. Garrett paused to admire the massive statue standing in front of the main entrance of the college.

“Makes you wish they’d make a carving of you doesn’t it?”

Hawke resisted the urge to jump out of his skin as Farkas whispered in his ear from right behind him.

“Maker’s breath, Farkas!”

“I’m starting to worry about you mage,” the werewolf said, looking serious. “If I can sneak up on you so easily then I’d hate to see an assassin try.”

Hawke turned to glare at the warrior but before he could so much as utter a word, Farkas had grabbed his hand and was tugging him along. Hawke allowed himself to be led into the bowels of the college. His eyes taking in the beautiful architecture and the bustling students and faculty, though there were fewer than he had expected. 

Farkas took him into a side room off of a short staircase. The room was laden with books and staves of every class. Some other magically imbued weapons sat in display cases scattered throughout, alongside enchanted rings and pendants. The walls shelves also held armor indicative to spell casting as well as robes.

“Meron sent that message at first light,” Farkas told the mage as they approached an eleven woman. “While we wait for a response Meron agreed to help out with a small expedition. You’re welcome to wait for us here but we figured you’d probably rather tag along?”

Hawke nodded.

“Good! Alright then, let’s get you a staff,” the werewolf said waving to a display rack against the nearby wall. “Whichever you like.” 

Garrett wandered the wall his eyes flicking over the staves available.

“Do you have anything with a blade on it,” he asked the elven woman watching them.

The way her brow furrowed told Hawke that the answer was, ‘no’. 

“We can alter one for you the next time we are near a proper forge,” Farkas said, giving the elf a look over Hawke’s head. “Pick the base staff you like for now.” The werewolf dropped his voice as he added, “Never seen a mage that liked to get close enough to the fighting that they’d want a blade on their stick.”

Hawke laughed as he began to look over the staves available. 

“Where I come from you wouldn’t be caught dead without a blade. Because of how magic is viewed you don’t always have the option of using it openly. You have to know how to defend yourself without it.” 

The mention of the strict view on magic back in Hawke’s homeworld made Farkas frown. He knew that even here in Skyrim there were those who were wary of magic. There were even those who hated it. The people of Winterhold had seen their city reduced to nearly nothing in the blink of an eye because of what had happened at the college. But as Meron had told the Jarl on more than one occasion, hating magic wasn’t going to bring the city back to life either. 

Hawke turned hefting a staff in his hand. It was of elven make, the uppermost portion of the staff was carved into an ornate looking dragon. The design continued down another third of the staff’s body, offering a better grip than some of the other smooth bodied staves. 

The mage stepped out into a more open area of the room and gave the long pole a few swings. It crackled to life as Hawke hesitantly pushed his power through the body. 

“This one shall do nicely,” Hawke said as he walked back to stand beside Farkas. 

The werewolf paid the elven woman and the two moved back out into the college proper. They had nearly made it back to the courtyard when Meron emerged from a door and spoted them.

“Ah, there you are,” the elf said, smiling. “I see that Farkas was able to procure you a weapon. I of course approve of your choice in elvish craftsmanship.”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen a man so happy to get his hands on a staff,” Farkas quipped dryly. “I’ll have you know he picked the biggest one too.” 

Hawke groaned aloud as Meron laughed.

“I am so thrilled that he has you to practice his charms on,” the elf told the mage. 

“So what is this expedition?”

Still grinning Meron led them out into the courtyard. 

“There is a ruin called Saarthal, not far from here. They are taking some apprentices out to explore it. Tolfdir, one of the teachers from the college, is leading them and has invited us to tag along. I figured since we shall remain until we hear back from the Stormcloak encampment, it would be a perfect way to pass the time.”


	5. Jailhouse Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric learns what happens to escaped dwarfs who are also under suspicion of being spies for the Empire.
> 
> Hawke does not learn the benefits of keeping his hands to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! So sorry for the long hiatus, life has been rather crazy as of late. I'll be doing a good bit of traveling over the next few weeks so I don't know how much posting I can guarantee. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy what felt like a total filler chapter. Things will be heating up but have to lay that good old foundation first (boo). I can see where this is going a bit more and oh boy.......lore, canon and your knickers better hold on tight.

“Alright, please stay close to me while we’re inside. It should be safe, but it’s always better to be cautious.”

Hawke’s gaze flickered between the seasoned mage leading the expedition and the towering rock that housed the ruin they were to explore.

“Is there anything that could be in this ruin that I need to know about,” he asked his traveling companions.

Meron cast a glance back at the mage.  
“Have you ever dealt with walking corpses or giant insects?”

Hawke nodded.

The elf smiled reassuringly. “Then just keep your fire handy and you’ll be fine.”

“And let the rogue go first to disarm any traps,” Hawke quipped with a glance at the warrior behind him. Farkas rolled his eyes but the corners of his mouth twitched a grin.

“The mage learns fast,” Meron said as they moved into the ruin. 

Tolfdir lectured about the history behind the ruins as they made their way down along the scaffolding left by the initial exhibition team. Farkas watched as Hawke’s eyes lit up, clearly taking in the elder mage’s every word. The werewolf made a mental note to show the mage the college library once they returned from this little jaunt.

Once they reached one of the lower levels of the cavern Tolfdir approached Meron. 

“Arniel Gane is in one of the caverns ahead. Please see if you are able to assist him?”

The elf nodded and motioned for the others to follow. 

Meron led the way further into the ruin until they happened upon the mage Tolfdir had mentioned. Arniel bid them to check the chamber north of where he had already explored. Their task was simple, bring back any magical artifacts they could find.

Hawke felt giddy as they began to explore the cavern. He had always loved academic undertakings. Some of his fondest memories were of sitting on his father’s lap staring wide eyed at the book in his father’s hands as the surly sounding mage read to him before bed. Watching as his father poured over books about agriculture as he worked to provide food and a means of income for his family. 

Something glinted in the corner of Hawke’s vision, drawing him from his thoughts.

The big mage paused then redirected his course down a narrow hallway. He sighed, disappointed, as he came to find the way forward blocked by an iron gate. He turned to go back the way he had come when his eyes caught sight of a strange looking amulet. 

The amulet was nestled on a small ledge within a shallow alcove. 

“Finding anything,” Meron asked from down the hallway. 

“Yes,” Hawke called back. “Some kind of necklace.”

Hawke heard the shift of Farkas’ armor and Meron’s soft footfalls as the duo drew near. He reached out and plucked the necklace from its place on the wall. 

Suddenly the sharp sound of metal grating filled the air.

“What was that,” the mage called as he moved back from the alcove. 

A hand pressed against the small of Hawke’s back, stilling him.

“We’re right behind you,” the werewolf said reassuringly. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” Meron said from further back down the hall, “but we appear to be trapped. 

The others moved to join the elf who stood facing a series of metal bars that had slid out of hidden slots to block the way back into the main area of the excavation area. 

“Arniel,” Meron shouted.

A few minutes later both Arniel and Tolfdir appeared.

“What in the world was that racket? Is everyone alright,” Tolfdir asked as he neared the bars. 

“Indeed, we are all well,” Meron said. “However, we appear to be stuck here.”

“How in the world did that happen?”

Hawke sheepishly held up the amulet he had found, “I pulled this from a shelf carved into the wall and it just...triggered something.”

“What happened to ‘let the rogue go first’,” Farkas whispered, teasing. 

“Hmm. Perhaps the amulet is important somehow. Is there some way you can use it?”

“You are a mage,” Meron said, eyes wandering over the amulet. “Put it on, Hawke.”

Hawke slipped the loop over his head and instantly he felt something _ pulling _ him.

He turned back to the wall where he had initially found the amulet and walked back to stand before it. A strange red essence whirled from the small shelf where the amulet had sat. 

From behind them Tolfdir excitedly cried, “Do you see that? Some kind of resonance...you and the wall. It must be connected to the amulet! I wonder...what effect might your spells have?”

Hawke lifted one hand, summoning a force spell. The energy of it felt different, as if it too was being pulled towards the wall. He hurled his magic at the small shelf and watched enrapt as the wall exploded in a cloud of rubble. 

A few moments later Tolfdir appeared, moving past the trio and towards the opening.

“Well would you look at that! This appears to lead somewhere. Let’s see where it goes.”

That said the old mage took off into the newly opened tunnel.

Meron was the first to follow, bow already in hand, as they made their way further into the ruin. The amulet around Hawke’s neck itched and vibrated with a power he could not describe. Like it was trying to _ go _ somewhere, and attempting to force him to take it wherever that was. 

They stepped into a small room with a raised alter at its center. 

As soon as he entered the room Hawke staggered to a stop as the world around him pitched into a brilliant blue and white. He called out to Meron but found that the Dragonborn, Farkas and Tolfdir were all as unhearing and unmoving as statues. 

A moment later a hooded figure materialized at the front of the room and took a step towards Hawke.

“Hold mage,” the stranger said, “and listen well. Know that you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped. Judgement has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgement will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching.”

Before Hawke could respond the man was gone as quickly as he had arrived. 

This was much more like his adventures back in Thedas.

Sudden.

Cryptic. 

World ending potential consequences.

Maker, he wished Varric were with him.

“I...I swear I felt something rather strange just then,” the elderly mage muttered. 

Meron turned to face Hawke, eyes sharp and searching. 

“Indeed. Did something happen, Hawke? You look troubled.”

“When we stepped into the room you all froze and then this person appeared. He warned me about a disaster to come and how I might be able to prevent it. He said something about an Order, the Psijic Order. Have you heard of it?”

“The Psijic Order? Are you quite sure about that,” Tolfdir asked. “That’s very odd. The Psijics have no connection to these ruins. And no one has seen any of their Order in a long time.”

Farkas moved to one of the heavy lidded sarcophaguses stationed along the exterior wall of the room. “Maybe there’s something in one of these that will give us a clue?”

There was a sound of shifting stone, but Farkas was not touching the coffin. Suddenly the lids to two of the sarcophaguses fell forward and out stepped a set of walking corpses. 

Unlike the corpses back home apparently some of these could wield magic, even in death. 

Maker’s breath what had Hawke gotten into this time?

  


The group pressed forward into a cavernous room with coffins lining the entire circumference of the outer wall. After dealing with another wave of corpses Tolfdir had expressed the desire to remain behind to study the chamber.

Meron had told Farkas to stay with the elderly mage while they pressed on. Something that the werewolf clearly had not liked, but had still done without verbal complaint. 

Now deep in the unexplored ruins, it was just Hawke and the Dragonborn. 

Not that, that had slowed their progress in the least. Meron was outstanding with a bow and had an eye for picking out which corpses would most likely awaken from their slumber and attack. Many of them never got the chance to sit up before an arrow found its way into their heads or hearts. Those that did manage to attack met their end just as swiftly engulfed in Hawke’s flames. 

“Farkas hates being left behind,” the elf abruptly told the mage, as deft fingers searched a burial urn for treasures. “I do that to him at times. He will be quite cross with me once we are reunited and back at the inn.”

“That is very...loyal of him.”

Meron chuckled, “Indeed. He is quite the protector and I treasure him. The Companions don’t deserve him,” the elf added abruptly, tone serious. 

Hawke cast the Dragonborn a glance. 

“He said that you spent quite a bit of time with The Companions but what are they exactly?”

“They are a band of warriors, men and women from all over Skyrim. A guild of sorts. For Farkas they are more though, they are his family. He and his brother were taken in when they were very young and they have remained there ever since.”

“What did you mean that they do not deserve him,” Hawke asked, watching as Meron began to fiddle with a set of four carved stones, his mind chewing over what could have brought two young twins into a guild of warriors. The elf shifted the stones around and around, then moved to pull a lever seated in the center of the room. The large gate barring their way shifted upward allowing them to move on. 

“Farkas’ twin brother Vilkas is heralded as one of the most intelligent and skilled members of the group. While Farkas is also part of what they refer to as their Inner Circle, he does not receive the same respect. They treat him as if he were a boulder. As though his only redeeming qualities are being big and sturdy. When I met him, he would rarely speak because of how often he was ridiculed at Jorrvaskr.”

“Would it not be rather dangerous to poke fun at someone who could clearly rip you in half with their bare hands?”

“They are all his brothers and sisters in arms,” Meron said simply. “He would never harm any of them, not even in his own defence. They know this and they use it. It makes me furious...I thought that I should mention it to you in case you ever meet them. I could see you traveling with us long enough that you might get the chance.”

Before Hawke could respond, or even comprehend why that sent a thrill of excitement through his gut, the sound of footsteps racing up behind them drew the duo’s attention. 

It was Tolfdir and not far behind him, Farkas.

“I thought it high time we caught up with you,” the old mage said.

“Are you alright? I saw several tripped traps on our way after you,” Farkas said, his gaze on Hawke.

“We are _ both _well,” Meron said, tone amused.

“That’s erm, good,” Farkas huffed as he slid his gaze to the elf then towards the floor. 

They pressed on until they reached a shallow staircase. At the base they could see a swirling brilliant teal light. As if the amulet were controlling him, Hawke pushed forwards and down into the lit room then staggered to a halt. 

Four pillars stood from floor to ceiling and in their center swirled a dazzling arching mist of brilliant light. Amidst the wisps and crackles of magical light bobbed a massive orb. The shell of the orb was crisscrossed in brilliant designs and Hawke swore he could taste its magic on his tongue.

The others crowded in behind the big mage along the small walkway which led down to the room housing the orb below.

Tolfdir was the first to speak.

“Well now...would you look at that. I never imagined we’d find something like this! Why is this buried so far within Saarthal?”

Suddenly the telltale noise of a draugr awakening filled the chamber. 

Hawke looked down and found a rather large corpse sporting a wicked looking helmet growling up at them from its place on a throne. The draugr leapt to its feet and charged up the stairway to the group’s left. 

The fight was relatively brief with it being four against one, but the draugr was more powerful than any of the others they had encountered earlier in the ruin. 

Meron looted the body and held up a fragment of what looked like another amulet along with a note. Briefly golden-green eyes shifted over the note before folding the fragment up inside of it and stowing it away in the elf’s pocket. The elf then moved to the embalming table near where the powerful corpse had been seated. Sharp eyes caught upon the glint of a staff head and quickly retrieved it from its place upon the table and slipped it up alongside the bow at the elf’s back. 

Hawke moved to where Tolfdir and Farkas stood eyeing the orb.

“Do you know what this thing is?”

“I have no idea,” the elderly mage admitted. “This is amazing. Absolutely amazing! The Arch-Mage needs to be informed immediately. He needs to see this for himself.”

Tolfdir turned to face Meron then, “I dare not leave this unattended. Can you return to the College and inform Savos Aren of this discovery?”

Meron bowed slightly, “Of course.”

“Please, hurry!”

  
  


* * *

Varric should have known better than to rest his eyes.

He also should have known that his little escape was going just far too well. 

One minute he was blearily watching the snowy landscape pass by as he drifted off. The next, he was being kicked awake by the man wearing the bear pelt. 

“Wake up spy,” the man hissed as he loomed overhead.

Varric glared, “I’m not a spy. I’m just trying to get back to my friend,” he said levely. 

Galmar laughed, “Sure you’re not. And I’m the High Queen! On your feet spy. I have just the place for you back in Windhelm.”

And so, the handsome rogue was once again hogtied and thrown across the back of a horse.

That series of events was getting old fast.

As they traveled back to the city Varric daydreamed about what would happen to this Galmar once Hawke got his hands on him, or once he got his hands on a crossbow. 

Once they reached the city Varric was taken back to the Palace of the Kings, led down into the bowels of the building and unceremoniously shoved into a jail cell. 

Galmar had grinned cruelly as the door clicked shut.

“We’ll give you a few days to think about how much you love the Empire. See if your loyalty is enough to fill your belly. Then we’ll have ourselves a nice little chat.”

He laughed as he exited the room. 

Varric sighed and settled in against the back wall of his cell. At least they hadn’t taken his cloak from him, he thought as he made himself a cozy cocoon. He surveyed his surroundings with a calculating eye. 

There were three guards standing watch, two in the actual cellblock and one at the door. Most of the other cells were empty. The inhabitants of those that were filled had already lost interest after watching him be brought in and gone back to sleep. 

“Hey, Lad?”

A voice, thick and accented broke the silence of the cell. 

Varric turned his head slowly to his right until his gaze came to rest on the human in the cell next to his own. He quirked a brow at the human, eyes quickly taking in the man’s overly friendly demeanor. 

“Are ye’ really a spy?”

“No,” the dwarf said dryly. “Though that hardly seems to matter to the powers that be.”

“Aye,” the man said nodded sadly, “they make up their minds rather quick around here. I myself was merely selling an elixir within the city and they arrested me! Can you believe that? A man just trying to make a coin or two, and tossed in a cell for it?” The man shook his head, long strands of red hair swaying in his face. “It’s a shame.”

Varric caught the edge of the man’s smile.

This guy, whoever he was, was dangerous. 

The dwarf rolled his eyes, “That sounds terrible, friend. My deepest condolences to the death of free trade and an honest living.”

At that the man laughed, the sound was deep and vibrant. 

When the man stopped, he looked at Varric his eyes dancing. 

“You...you’re a smart one. Someone who knows how to get his hands dirty and turn that dirt to coin don’t ya?”

“Where I’m from I am but a humble merchant who’s hard work has paid off,” Varric said innocently. 

“My name is Brynjolf,” the man said quietly once the patrolling guards had returned to opposite sides of the room. “And I’m not staying here long. I have someone coming to pick me up, so to speak. You keep your wits about you and we’ll take you with us. You’d owe me a favor, but I think you’re just the kind of man who’s good at that sort of thing.” 

“Let me guess the favor is highly illegal and if I get caught I just end back up in a cell while you get to roam free? Not much of a bargain.” 

“And what kind of treatment do you think a spy is going to get here,” Brynjolf shot back. “I’d hate to see your talents wasted. And if you’re as good as I’m guessing, you wouldn’t get caught.”

Varric licked his lips as he weighed his options.

“And where would we be headed? I have a friend out there who needs me. We got separated and it’s been days. I was trying to go towards Winterhold when they caught me again.” 

“Hmm,” Brynjolf hummed in his throat. “Now that is a problem. We’d be headed home, back to Riften. It’s in rather the opposite direction.”

“Then I’ll have to pass.”

“Sleep on it,” the Nord said as he shifted on his back. “We’ve a few days until my family comes to get me, Lad.” 

“Varric. My name is Varric.”

“Varric,” Brynjolf said, the dwarf’s name rolling off his tongue. “That’s a nice name.”

  
  


Two days passed and true to his word, Galmar made sure that Varric didn’t so much as see a skein of water. The dwarf, however, was resilient and stubborn. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not yet anyway, so he wasn’t about to start begging or rambling his nonexistent guilt. 

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t starting to feel the bite of hunger. 

Brynjolf helped. 

The Nord couldn’t survive without speaking it seemed. He told nonsensical tales one after the other, his sarcasm dry as bones left in the sun. Varric rather enjoyed the tactic which eventually caused the guards to give their cells a wider birth so as not to have to listen to the constant chatter. And gave him the privacy needed to learn more about Brynjolf and his ‘family’. 

On the third day Varric was visited by Jarl Ulfric. 

Galmar was with him, of course, and Varric rolled his eyes not bothering to get up off the floor of the cell to greet them. 

“On your feet _ spy _,” Galmar hissed.

Varric waved a dismissive hand at the man. 

“Can’t. Too weak from starvation and all that, just like you wanted.” 

Brynjolf let out a soft snort of laughter.

“What connection does the Dragonborn have to the Empire,” Ulfric asked then.

There was that title again.

The legendary something or other than Jenkka had mentioned on the road. 

Varric sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position, reclining back on his arms as he looked up at the Jarl. For the first time he noticed a piece of paper clutched in Ulfric’s hand. 

“Isn’t the Dragonborn just some kind of legend to you people? And why are you asking me? I have nothing to do with this Empire you’re so upset about. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it just one more time, I am just trying to find my friend!”

“Hawke.” 

When Ulfric said the mage’s name every nerve in Varric’s body lit up. 

The Jarl smiled slightly, eyes knowing. 

“Your friend’s name, is Hawke, or at least this is the alias he has given the Dragonborn with whom he travels. They reached out to one of my camps, looking for information as to your whereabouts.”

Hawke was alive!

He had known it, just _ known _ it!

Hearing it however lifted something terrible off of Varric’s chest.

And had apparently the mage had found himself a legendary friend. 

How typical.

“And you told them, what,” Varric shot back. “That I’m laying in a bed of velvet eating candied grapes from the spilling bosom of a fine lady?”

Brynjolf was barely able to conceal his laugh this time, playing it off as a rough cough.

“No. I told them that you are here and that if they wish to see you, the Dragonborn will have to meet with me about the missive I sent to them months ago, rallying them to join me in my plight. The Dragonborn has thus far remained silent on the matter, refusing to so much as visit my hold it would seem. But now, now if this is truly from the Dragonborn, I have _ you _. And if you are as important to your friend as he is to you, he will convince the Dragonborn to come.”

Varric gaped at the Jarl.

“You’re really going to risk pissing off someone who is a _ legend _ to your people and blackmail them into meeting you?! That’s just...so _ typical _ of a roguish upstart that it’s not even funny!”

The next thing Varric knew Ulfric opened his mouth and said, “_ Fus ro _!”

The words came at the dwarf like a gale force wind, slamming him against the back wall of his cell. He blinked, dazed from the impact.

What kind of magic was that!?

“The Dragonborn is not the only one who can wield the power of the thu’um,” Ulfric said coldly. “If your friend refuses to come for you, I will put you to the sword myself. I will give them one week to heed my summons.”

With that, Ulfric whirled on his heel and strode out of the jail, Galmar not far behind him.

Time stood still for a moment as the gravity of the situation settled on Varric’s shoulders. 

Hawke was alive, this was good. Hawke and his new found friend where being coerced into meeting with this Ulfric guy because he was the Jarl’s prisoner, not good. And if they didn’t show up he was going to be executed, really not good.

The sound of Brynjolf shifting drew Varric’s gaze.

The redhead had moved to face the dwarf’s cell and was grinning from ear to ear.

“So, about that favor for a favor?”


	6. That's What You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gets to make so many new friends!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers. I apologize for the long span here between posts. Life has a funny way of getting in the way and I fear it isn't going to get much better until after the holidays. Never fear I am still very much invested in this story! Side note: boring filler chapters are not my forte.
> 
> Enjoy!

Varric stared up at the ceiling of his cell and focused on keeping his breathing nice and even. He didn’t know what he was about to get himself into with this Brynjolf character but he had a severe lack of options otherwise. 

Three more days had passed since the Jarl had come to tell him about Hawke and of his intention to use Varric as bait for this, Dragonborn. Varric was starving, his stomach a painful growling ball in his abdomen. But this part of his adventure was nearly over.

Or so said the redhead. 

Tonight, the ‘family members’ Brynjolf had been whispering about would come.

Varric heard the sound of boots coming and sighed softly. Just the change of the guard. He listened as the guards exchanged posts, nothing exciting. Would these people try and put the guards out or cause a distraction, he wondered. 

The sound of a cell door opening drew his attention. 

He looked to Brynjolf’s cell and raised a brow as he found the redhead on his feet smiling at the guard before him.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Lass.”

The guard huffed out a breath, “It’s good to see you too. Next time try to avoid getting caught?”

Brynjolf chuckled at that and turned to look at Varric. 

“Did you get my message about my new friend?”

“Mercer said that we should expect to have a tagalong,” the female voice said, sounding annoyed.

“I’m recruiting him,” Brynjolf said proudly as he moved down to Varric’s cell. “Varric, this is my esteemed colleague, Vex. Vex, Varric.” 

The dwarf had gotten to his feet and bowed slightly at the woman wearing the armor of the local guard. “I wish this were under different circumstances, but a pleasure to meet you.”

Vex did not respond verbally. Instead she produced a lockpick and got to work.

“Can you ride,” she asked as the cell door swung open. 

“Yes.”

“Good. We’ll have to keep up the pace once we are out of the city,” Vex continued as she led them out of the jail. 

They moved silently through what seemed like a maze of side passages until they reached the kitchens. Thankfully the room was empty. Vex moved into the center of the room near the hearth and divulged herself of the clunky armor, tossing it into the flames.

The woman was a beauty. Her short blonde hair gleamed in the firelight and though her face was stern she was composed of handsome angles and curved lips. 

Varric diverted his gaze before he found himself in the fire as well. 

“Alright, let’s keep moving. We’ll have to be more careful once we’re out in the city. Our contacts are in place to create a distraction if necessary but I’d rather not get them involved,” Vex told them.

Both men nodded. 

They crept out through a side door and into a narrow street that led down and away from the Keep. It became very apparent to Varric that this was a slum. If he had been back in Thedas he would have dubbed it an alienage.

Brynjolf muttered to Vex, “Are we swimming or are we risking the bridge?”

“I found someone willing to take us across in exchange for a case of skooma.”

Varric didn’t know what skooma was, but it sounded terrible. 

“Good job, Lass.”

Vex rolled her eyes at Brynjolf. 

They made their way down to what Varric could only assume were the docks. 

They stood there waiting for a few minutes. Then Varric heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned his gaze towards the sound and tried not to gape as a lizard walked up to them, eyes shifting. 

“Do you happen to need a boat,” the scale-skinned male asked, his voice containing a slight hiss to it. 

“We do,” Vex said motioning across the water. “Get us there and I have something with your name on it.”

The strange looking man nodded and took them to where a small row boat sat tied in the water. They climbed into the vessel and began their way across the icy waters. It was slow going as to avoid the attention of the guards patrolling the bridge between the city and the main roadway. Varric’s teeth were chattering by the time the boat’s bow ground against the snowy bank. 

Brynjolf exited the boat and turned back to assist the dwarf as Vex gave the boatman half of his promised reward. 

“My contact will give you the rest once we are safely away,” she told the man sharply.

The reptilian man looked as though he wanted to argue but then thought better of it. Instead he bowed his head towards Vex from his seat.

“A pleasure, Land-Strider.” 

Vex gave the boat a shove back into the water and turned to face her companions. “This way,” she said as she strode up towards the road. 

The trio turned the opposite way that Varric had gone during his initial escape. 

They stuck to the brush and trees that lined the less traveled roadway for a few miles then crossed over and made their way towards the base of the mountain looming over them. 

There sat a squat little shack completely hidden from the road. A man stepped out from the building and said, “‘Bout time you lot got here. I was beginning to worry.”

Vex snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Where are my mounts, Delvin?”

Brynjolf laughed.

“I can’t believe Mercer sent both of you after me! It’s good to know I’m so important! Warms my heart.”

Vex groaned and gestured impatiently to Delvin. “Mounts?”

Delvin grinned, “Right this way then, my Queen.”

The two continued to bicker as they rounded the building. Four horses stood saddled and ready. 

Varric made his way to one of the horses and strained as his freezing fingers refused to grip the saddle leathers. 

Two strong hands settled in his sides and lifted him into place a moment later. Varric turned to find Brynjolf watching him.

“As embarrassing as that was, thank you,” the rogue huffed, shivering beneath his cloak. 

The redhead frowned and reached up to undo the clasps of his own cloak. He tossed it over Varric’s shoulders. Due to their difference in height the cloak hung down past the dwarf’s boots. 

“That should help. We’ll have a hard ride at first but we’ll be somewhere warm soon enough. Just say something to me if it gets worse alright?”

Varric nodded.

Brynjolf was starting to remind him of Hawke. 

That sent a dagger of unexpected pain shooting through Varric’s chest. “When we stop, you’ll send a message back to my friend right,” he asked the redhead. 

Brynjolf pulled himself up into his own saddle and then nodded at the shorter man. 

“Aye. Just as I promised, Varric. As soon as we reach an inn, you can write your friend and we’ll get it sent right away.”

“Thank you.” 

The ride was as hard as Vex had promised. They continued on the road they had started out on only to double back and take another hours later. There came a point when all Varric could do was grip his reins against the horn of the saddle and stay upright. Apparently, not eating in nearly a week could make a body weak, who knew? 

The landscape passed in a seemingly unending blur of muddled white. 

When a hand clasped over Varric’s he started, suddenly alert again. He blinked as he realized that at some point the sun had begun to rise. And that they were in a village. 

“Is this where we stop,” he asked, his mouth thick and dry. 

“Aye,” Brynjolf said gently. “Come on, we’ll get you inside and get some food in your belly.”

Varric allowed the human to assist him in dismounting then followed him into the inn. 

“Welcome to the Braidwood Inn,” a woman called out as they stepped through the door. “Can I get you anything?”

“Food, drink, a quill and ink if you please,” Brynjolf called back merrily. He moved Varric to a nearby table and headed over to where the woman stood behind a counter. 

Normally Varric would listen in on the conversation but at the present moment he was simply too exhausted. Instead he fixed his gaze on the tankard in front of him and tried to think of what he was going to write to Hawke. 

A few minutes later Brynjolf appeared with an armload of goods. A bowl of stew found its way in front of Varric, the smell making his mouth water. Brynjolf poured some mead into the dwarf’s tankard then handed Varric a quill and paper. 

“Do as you please but I’d recommend writing before you eat. Once we get our bellies full I’m sure we’ll both want to sleep a bit before we have to head out again.” 

Varric nodded, taking the parchment and writing tool. He smoothed the paper out on the table and took a short breath before he began to scribble away.

Brynjolf ate quietly at his side as the dwarf choked back unexpected tears at the thought of being able to communicate with Hawke after thinking the mage might be dead and having been apart for so long in this strange world. 

Once he had finished and the ink was dry, Varric rolled the missive into a tidy scroll. Brynjolf took it from him and made his way back to the front of the inn, returning a few minutes later to tuck back into his meal. 

“It is sent,” the redhead told Varric. 

The dwarf let out a sigh of relief and took a bite from the bowl before him. He forced himself to refrain from inhaling his meal, even as his stomach screamed at him to do just that. As he ate, Varric began to feel better about the situation in which he found himself.

Hawke would now know that he was alive and well.

There was, however, the small matter of owing Brynjolf for his newfound freedom.

After scraping his bowl clean Varric cleared his throat and turned his gaze to the redhead seated beside him.

“So. What is this favor that you’ll be needing of me?”

Brynjolf grinned, “Ah, yes. Well you see, Varric, there’s someone who hasn’t been playing nicely with my family as of late.”  
“That’s one way to put it.”

The sound of Vex’s voice from behind them made Varric flinch. He cast a glance at the woman over his shoulder. She was frowning, per the usual. 

She moved to sit on Varric’s right and waved at the innkeeper for a drink. Once she had a full tankard in front of her, she said, “Our largest benefactor is having trouble with the elf who used to supply her meadery with honey. The elf’s had a change of heart, as it were, and we believe he is now working with someone else.”  
“He needs to be taught a lesson,” Brynjolf explained cheerfully. 

“One that others have already attempted to teach,” Vex hissed.

Varric shifted his gaze between the two “associates” seated on either side of him. 

“The fact that our first attempt was unsuccessful in no way reflects poorly on the abilities of those who tried,” Brynjolf said carefully.  
“And now you want to give the job to an outsider!”

“Enough,” Brynjolf said, voice suddenly hard as steele. “Varric, my apologies. If you go to the innkeeper, they will show you your room. Get some rest. We have a long road ahead of us.” 

Without so much as a second of hesitation, Varric slipped from his seat and moved to the innkeeper’s counter. As he went he could hear Brynjolf’s voice cutting through the air behind him. Whatever this “job” was, it hadn’t gone well and it was important enough that Brynjolf seemed willing to throw anything he could at it. 

Including sending in someone outside of the ‘family’. 

Varric asked for his room and followed the innkeeper into a modest chamber. He closed the door and moved to take a seat on the edge of the small bed. He let out a groan and flopped back atop the furs there then sighed. 

He hoped that Hawke would get his missive soon. He hoped that he would be able to see the mage soon as well. 

Varric allowed himself a small grin as his eyes fell shut. If this was the kind of bind he had managed to get into, he could only imagine what kind of trouble that mage had gotten into. 

* * *

Meron led the way into the college and up a series of winding narrow staircases until they reached Savos Aren’s quarters. 

The Arch-Mage was standing beneath a glowing light, his narrowed eyes scanning the pages of some ancient tome. His pointed ears twitched as he heard them approaching. Without turning his head Savos said, “Dragonborn. And to what do I owe the pleasure today?” 

“Tolfdir sent me to tell you about what happened during the expedition into Saarthal.”

The Arch-Mage sighed, the sound long and disdainful. 

“Do not tell me that another of the apprentices has been incinerated. I have enough to deal with right now.”

“No,” Meron responded dryly. “We unearthed an orb of some kind. Tolfdir had never seen anything like it and would appreciate you coming to take a look yourself.” 

Savos licked a finger and turned the page of his book. 

“Very well, I shall see what I can make of this _ orb _. In the meantime please go to the Arcanaeum and speak with Urag. See if he knows of anything that might match your discovery.” 

Meron nodded, giving the Arch-Mage a shallow bow. 

“Wait,” Hawke said suddenly. “What about the Psijic Order? Do you know anything about it?” 

Savos’ eyes raised from the page and pinned Garrett with their rusty glare. 

“One of their number used to advise the Arch-Mage when I was but an apprentice here. But that was a great many years ago, before all of the order were called back to the Isle of Artaeum, and disappeared entirely. Now, go, I have much to do.” 

The trio all turned and exited the Arch-Mage’s chambers. Meron again slipped to the front of the group leading them to the Arcanaeum.

“Did that go well,” Hawke asked. “I couldn’t tell…”

“Oh yes,” Meron responded tightly. “Savos was actually in a rather friendly mood today. Don’t take him personally,” the elf added, pushing open another heavy door. “I think he finds everyone to be beneath him.”

Hawke sighed, “That figures.”

In truth it bothered him. Finally being able to walk about in a world where magic was at the very least, tolerated. And then the second he meets another accomplished and powerful mage, that mage dislikes him. 

A large warm hand settled on Hawke’s shoulder, fingers squeezing. 

The mage turned his head back to meet Farkas’ gaze. 

The werewolf grinned, “The Arch-Mage doesn’t know what he’s missing brushing you off like that. Oh well, all the better for me and Meron.” Farkas shot the mage a wink. “Can’t have some fancy pants mage snapping you up and keeping you here all to himself now can we?” 

Hawke’s lips twitched into a small answering smile. 

Then Meron pushed open the doors leading into the Arcanaeum and the mage’s feet faltered. 

Hawke had never seen so many books in one place. Even the library in Skyhold paled in comparison to this. He was awestruck and enamored. 

Farkas silently bemoaned that he had not been the one to show Hawke this place. 

Judging by the look on the mage’s face Hawke’s reaction was just as he had thought it would be. 

“You look like you’re in Sovngarde.”

“Where’s that,” the mage asked blearily, his eyes still roaming the vaulted ceiling and shelves of tomes. 

“The nord version of heaven,” Meron supplied. “You two wander to your heart’s content. I shall go find Urag and see what he might have regarding ‘mysterious floating orbs found in ancient ruins’.” 

Farkas trailed behind Hawke as he began to circle the room. Every now and then the mage would reverently brush his fingers over a binding, his lips forming the title imprinted on the exposed spine. With movements that Farkas could only describe as tender, Hawke would then remove the tome from its place on the shelf and leaf through the pages, pausing now and then to read a section, before returning the book to its rightful place. 

Farkas could have watched him all day.

“Erm, excuse me, Companion?” 

Farkas turned his gaze to find a courier standing just behind him. The young nord held out a sealed scroll, his eyes flitting to where Meron stood across the room. 

“This is for the Dragonborn, but they appear busy at the moment…”

The werewolf reached out to pluck the missive from the Nord’s hands. “I’ll see to it that the Dragonborn gets this. Any idea who it is from?”

“Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” the courier said, awe evident in his voice. 

“Thanks,” Farkas said as he turned his back on the man. He knew that he should wait for Meron to read the missive but something about the paper in his hand made his skin crawl.

Luckily the elf’s conversation with Urag was short. 

Meron bowed to the orc before turning and moving back to Farkas’ side. 

“Something for me,” the elf asked, hand already awaiting the scroll. 

Farkas handed the parchment as he said, “From Jarl Ulfric himself.” 

At that Meron bristled, the outstretched hand faltering for a moment. Then fingers tightened and removed the scroll from the warrior’s steady hand. Deftly Meron flicked apart the seal and read the Jarl’s missive. 

Dragonborn,

Perhaps this time my message will not be ignored. 

I, Ulfric Stormcloak, the true king of Skyrim request your presence in my hold. I have received your inquiry about a stranger found on the road to Winterhold. Know that he is with me now as my prisoner. I have attempted to be civil in requesting an audience with you before as we have much to talk about. You have one week to heed my summons, or I shall execute the one called, Varric.

Ulfric Stormcloak

Meron’s hands slowly curled into the edges of the parchment until Farkas feared that the elf was about the rip the missive in half.

“Not good,” the werewolf asked. 

“Ulfric has Hawke’s friend...as his prisoner. Farkas, he threatens to execute him if I do not go to Windhelm and grant him an audience!” 

Farkas growled low in his throat even as he placed a comforting hand on the elf’s shoulder. 

As a nord himself, Farkas had never been able to fully comprehend Meron’s unwillingness to meet with the Jarl. He had heard many tales of Ulfric’s heroism in the name of his people. He had always been, in Farkas’ mind, a man to be respected. 

But now, Ulfric threatening Hawke’s friend conflicted deeply with the warrior’s understanding of the Jarl.  
“We only have a week to act,” Meron added, voice oddly hollow. Then the elf took a deep breath, rolled their shoulders and calmly put the Jarl’s summons into a pocket on their pack. “It seems I have little choice but to go...I shall need you and Hawke to continue to research the orb on your own until I am able to figure out how to free Varric.”

“Okay, now you’re talking crazy, Meron. I am not letting you go to Windhelm on your own. Especially if the Jarl is using threats to get you there! Not to mention, there’s no way Hawke is going to go anywhere other than Windhelm once he finds out that his friend is being held prisoner!”

“He isn’t going to find out,” Meron said cooly, and Farkas froze.

“You mean...you aren’t going to tell him!”

“And neither are you,” Meron stated firmly. “Ulfric is already willing to toy with the life of Hawke’s friend in order to get me there. I would not put it past him to do the same with anyone else who travels with me in order to sway me into helping his rebellion move forward.”

Farkas opened and closed his mouth several times as his mind raced to come up with another solution.

“We must have _ someone _ in the city already that you could ask to confirm what Ulfric says. For all we know he could be lying in order to get you to come meet with him?”

Meron sighed, ears drooping. “He knew Varric’s name, Farkas. He has him, and if what I know about Ulfric is true he will keep his word and follow through with the execution if I do not go. Please, listen to me. We will leave immediately. We will travel together until we reach Nightgate Inn. From there you and Hawke will go to Fellglow Keep. Apparently a former apprentice recently pilfered documents Urag had regarding the Psijic Order and their connection to Saarthal, and is held up there with a group of rogue mages.” 

“Great. So you go to face the Jarl, alone. And I take the mage, to go after a mage, who’s hiding out with a bunch of other mages?”

Meron smiled widely and smacked a hand on Farkas’ broad back. 

“You’ve got it!” 

“And don’t tell Hawke about his friend.” 

At that Meron’s grin faded. The elf’s gaze briefly flickered to the floor before shifting back up to meet with Farkas’ pale silver one. 

“Yes. It will be easier this way in case things in Windhelm become...complicated.”


	7. The Big Bad Wolf and the Existential Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farkas may or may not be the best liar in Skyrim.  
Hawke might have at one point thought about Cullen naked.  
Meron has a kink for facing danger alone.  
Varric is the sassy newcomer at school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again dear readers! I hope to have the next segment rolled out sooner rather than later. I'm having way too much fun with flirty Farkas btw so please remain buckled in for MORE of that. Short Varric portion this round, I was trying to keep things relatively even but it's now at the point where the words go to where the action will be. Don't worry though, plenty of Varric still to come.

Farkas didn’t like lying to Hawke. 

It didn’t matter that Meron had kept insisting that lying and withholding information were not the same thing. He wasn’t being fully honest with the mage and that bothered him. 

But the Dragonborn had made him swear that he would not say anything about Varric until Meron had the man in hand, safe from the clutches of Ulfric Stormcloak. 

The werewolf swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists as he trudged up the snowy path behind Meron and the mage. 

They had managed to tear Hawke away from the Arcanaeum and headed out for Fellglow Keep with a few hours of daylight to spare, and if Meron’s pace was any indication, they were going to utilize every minute. 

Hawke glanced back at Farkas and slowed his pace so that they were walking side by side. 

“Care to share why you and Meron are suddenly both looking so serious?” 

The werewolf grinned, eyes closing as he steeled himself against Hawke’s considerable charms.

“It’s this orb business,” he said with a shrug. “Not to mention a long gone order returning to tell  _ you _ that you’re needed to stop some disaster...now that I think about it, you seem to not be too shaken up about that?”

It was Hawke’s turn to shrug then. 

“Would it surprise you to hear that I get into a lot of situations like this?” 

Farkas let out a bark of laughter. 

“No, somehow that doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re trouble, aren’t you, Hawke?”

The mage flushed slightly at that, or maybe it was from huffing his way up another mountainside, Farkas could not tell, but it was a good look either way. The warrior’s grin widened, his voice dropping deep into his chest as he added, “Lots of trouble.” 

“Dear sweet Maker’s tits,” Hawke muttered as he ripped his gaze away from the handsome warrior at his side and looked out to the surrounding landscape. 

A hand at his back made Hawke’s hair stand on end. He whirled his gaze back to Farkas, who was watching him intently with those milky eyes of his. 

“All fun stuff aside, we should discuss Fellglow. From what Urag was able to tell Meron there’s a group of rebel mages who have holed up in the Keep. We won’t have Meron to snipe everyone we come across so I’m really going to need you to watch my back.”

“Not a problem,” Hawke retorted quickly. 

In fact he was becoming quite proficient at watching Farkas’ back but he managed to keep that part to himself. 

The warrior’s smile turned smoldering, as if he could hear the mage’s thoughts anyway.

“Good. I’m counting on you Mage, don’t make me regret trading in my elf.”

Meron’s ears twitched. The Dragonborn cast an amused look back at the duo trailing along behind. 

“Trading me in? Perish the thought, Farkas. I am merely offering you two the opportunity to get your battle synergy squared away.” 

“Speaking of which, why are you splitting off from us?”

Hawke caught a flicker of something passing through Meron’s sharp eyes. But then the elf was smiling as demurely as always. 

“We need several texts according to Urag. It will cut back on time if we split up. I have the blood of dragons running through my veins so one would hope that I can handle a paltry group of bandits on my own.” 

“Yes, one would hope that,” Farkas said dryly, earning him a glare from the elf. 

“I’ll have you both know that I did just fine before I met Farkas.” 

“Sure you did. Hiding in corners, praying to Arkay that you didn’t run out of arrows before all of your foes were felled…”

Meron’s golden-green eyes rolled as the elf turned back to the path ahead, a dismissive hand waving over one shoulder. 

They trekked until the sun had set, bunkering down in a stand of trees to help block the biting wind that had picked up.

“I hate the wind,” Meron told the two humans. 

Hawke had gotten a fire going which the Dragonborn was currently all but sitting in to try and combat the cold.

“Do you want my blanket,” the mage offered.

But Farkas had already moved over to stand just behind the elf. The warrior’s gaze shifted up through the trees to the moonlight filtering overhead.

“It’s going to be a full moon soon,” Farkas stated to no one inparticular. Then he moved his gaze to Hawke. “Do you mind if I transform?”

The mage quirked a brow, “Why would I?”

“You’d be surprised how many people are actually scared of werewolves,” the warrior said, laughter in his voice. 

Farkas then began to divest himself of his armor. He caught Hawke watching and made sure to remove his chestplate slowly so that it caught his undershirt, pulling the garment up enough that it exposed his stomach. 

Hawke’s mouth dropped open with an audible click at the sight of the thickly muscled abdomen. He then tried very hard to remind himself that this was not the time or place to be developing a man-crush.

_ Think of home. Think of...Bull! Iron Bull is big...or Cullen! Think of how hot it would be to play the naughty mage and the stern older templar once you get home… _

It almost worked.

Almost.

Then as Farkas undid his bracers his bared arms flexed and bulged in the firelight and the memory of being hefted over one of those thick shoulders assailed Hawke’s mind.

“For the love of Dibella,” Meron breathed, but the elf was grinning. 

Farkas hadn’t so much as engaged in a quick romp since Meron had known the warrior, and while being abstinent didn’t bother the Dragonborn, they wondered at times about their friend. 

If the way the werewolf was acting around Hawke was any indication, that dry spell might be coming to an end.

The warrior laughed, the sound rich and ringing in the chilly mountain air. Then Farkas transformed. His limbs extended, twisting outwards in a way that looked terribly painful. His face elongated until his mouth erupted into a toothy snarling maw.

Once the transformation was complete, Farkas hunkered down behind Meron, curling around the elf’s shivering form. The elf sank back against the massive beast and heaved a contented sigh. 

They made a perfect picture together, Hawke thought to himself as he watched Meron snuggle deeper into Farkas’ fur. They had been traveling alone for a long time and suddenly Hawke felt as though he were intruding on something extremely private. 

Sure Farkas was a flirt, but watching how he and Meron were now made the mage feel guilty for having any romantic thoughts about the warrior.

What if they were more than just traveling companions and just very quiet about it?

“Hawke,” Meron suddenly called out. “Come over here and get warm.”

The mage shook his head, “Oh no. I’m okay. Not really too cold…”

Farkas growled menacingly, cutting Hawke off.

Meron snorted, “Get over here, Mage, before this guy makes you. And if he moves away and leaves me freezing again, I’m going to be cranky.”

Hawke awkwardly gathered up his bedroll and trudged over to the others. Farkas uncurled himself enough to leave a space for the mage next to Meron, who patted the snowy ground expectantly. 

The mage got himself settled in, but was careful to not sink back against the werewolf as the Dragonborn had done.

That lasted until the werewolf swiveled his head around and shoved his snout against Hawke’s chest, forcing him to lay back. 

Meron grinned and patted Farkas’ massive head, scratching behind the werewolf’s left ear.

“You’re going to have to give up trying to maintain some sense of propriety,” the elf informed the human. Meron slumped up against Hawke’s side and reached another hand out to pat the mage’s bearded jaw. “You’re our friend and there’s nothing you can do about it now. Best you relax and enjoy it.”

Hawke hesitated for a moment then leaned his face into the rogue’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. Hawke then threw an arm around Meron’s slim shoulders and tucked the elf soundly against his side. 

Farkas curled more tightly around them, placing his head in Meron’s lap. The rogue began to softly stroke Farkas’ ears while the mage scratched his neck.The motion eventually lulled them all into a peaceful slumber. 

That night they lay undisturbed beneath the stars.

  
  


At dawn’s first light they were on the move once more.

Meron set a grueling pace and Hawke was thankful that for once they seemed to be traversing a downward path instead of up another mountain side.

They encountered only a few minor setbacks in the form of roaming wolves and one very unhappy bear. By midday they came upon an inn standing alone in the midst of the mountain range. The group made their way inside to rest and eat. 

“This is where I leave you,” Meron informed the humans once their meal was finished and they were back on the road outside of the inn. “I have no doubts that you will be able to procure the text. Once you do, head back to Winterhold and await me there. If something were to delay me I will attempt to send a message.”

“You get four days,” Farkas abruptly said. “Four, Meron. From the moment we return to Winterhold. If I don’t hear from you, I’m coming after you.” 

The elf had clasped Farkas in a tight hug and said, “I know you will. Protect Hawke and keep yourself safe as well my friend.”

Meron turned and headed off down the road. With any luck the Dragonborn would be at Windhelm in two days time. While Farkas and Hawke would reach Fellglow Keep by nightfall. 

Farkas led the way now offering Hawke another opportunity to practice his ‘watching the warrior’s back’ skills. They walked the first few miles in companionable silence. 

Then Hawke’s curiosity got the better of him. 

“Would you be of a mind to tell me more about yourself and your adventures?”

“We have a full day of walking ahead of us, I don’t want to risk putting you to sleep again.” The werewolf winked over his shoulder at the mage. “You fall asleep before the good parts too.”

Hawke lengthened his stride so that he and Farkas now walked side by side.

“You do remember that you were  _ trying _ to get me to bed that night? I won’t nod off midday!”

Farkas’ smile was full of mischief as he shot back, “Oh, I remember. I also remember that I was successful in getting you into a bed. Didn’t think it would be that easy either.” 

Hawke had never blushed so much in his entire life. It was getting out of hand. In fact, he was going to ask the lovely orc Urag if he had any tomes about removing physical responses from the human body as soon as they returned to Winterhold. The side effects be damned!

“You’re as bad as Isabela. Worse, actually!” 

“Oh? Who is this Isabela?”

Hawke stumbled. It had been a long time since he had spoken about anyone from Kirkwall, other than Anders. And Farkas had no idea about Kirkwall, or Qunari uprisings, Tevinter, the disaster at the Conclave…

At the mage’s pause Farkas’ smile waned a little.

“Sorry. It’s fun to tease you, but I didn’t mean to bring up someone you didn’t want to talk about.”

“No, that’s not it! I just...it’s strange you know? To talk to someone about people or events that they don’t already know anything about. If that makes any sense?”

Farkas nodded, “It does. Could be refreshing though, maybe?” 

Hawke grinned as he nodded his agreement. 

“So, Isabela, where to start? She’s um a pirate with very strong appetites and she will not hesitate to tell you of those appetites. Nor will she hesitate to try to bed nearly anyone that comes across her path. Sometimes it’s so she can have a fun romp and sometimes it’s so she can rob or murder them. And sometimes it’s all three. Hard to tell which at first most of the time.” 

Farkas lifted a brow. “This was a  _ friend _ of yours?”

Hawke snorted.

“If your friends are of a mind to use you to steal sacred artifacts, abandon you and nearly get you killed, then yes, she was a very good friend.”

“Nearly get you killed?!”

Farkas’ voice had become dangerously low. His mind was racing. Just how many times had Hawke been close to death? It was Meron all over again. No sense of self preservation, always rushing in to save others and getting wrapped up in insane ventures! 

If there were now two of them, Farkas just knew his hair would be grey before year’s end.

Hawke waved a dismissive hand at the warrior. “I have had several brushes with death, Farkas. You’ll just have to get over it.”

Farkas disagreed silently.

“So how did this pirate nearly lead to your demise?”

“Oh well...so where I’m from there is a race known as Qunari. Most of them are built about like you but taller. Their skin is various shades of azure and most of them have horns on their heads. Anyway, you see they like to conquer things…”

Hawke launched into the tale of Isabela’s betrayal which had nearly led to an entire city being burned to the ground and its inhabitants either slain or converted to the Qun. He felt the ghost of the rage he had felt when it had all happened as he recounted Isabela’s long woven web of lies and omissions that had basically made him an accessory to her crimes as well.

By the time he had reached the portion of the tale where he would normally recount his duel with the Arishok, Hawke noticed that Farkas was looking troubled. Hastily the mage skipped that bit and wrapped up his tale with Isabela’s unexpected return with the sacred text before falling silent. 

“Varric tells it better than I do,” the mage blurted out after a few minutes had passed, unable to stand the strange tension any longer. “He is actually a published author and loves to spin tales, so when you meet him get ready for an earful.” 

For some reason this comment seemed to make the werewolf even more uneasy.

Hawke couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on. He reached out and grasped Farkas’ forearm, halting the warrior in his tracks.

“Is something wrong?”

Farkas nearly blurted everything out right then and there, but his oath to Meron stopped him at the last second. Instead he said, “I’m sorry that someone you trusted lied to you like that.”

Farkas felt terrible.

Here was Hawke, lost and alone in a strange land. With a past of at least one close companion betraying him already. The mage was trusting and relying on him and Meron...and here they were lying to him!

The mage’s hand squeezed around Farkas’ arm and he smiled warmly.

“It’s okay, really. Please, can we go back to where you’re teasing me so badly that I can barely form a coherent sentence? Because I like that a lot better than whatever it is I’ve said that has you looking so troubled.” 

Farkas’ answering smile did not reach his eyes. But it was there.

“Of course, I’m sorry to get so serious on you again. I just don’t like the idea of you going through something like that.” The warrior patted the hand on his forearm then resumed his stride. He tried to shake off the unease that had settled in his gullet like a stone. 

What would happen if Meron couldn’t rescue Varric?

What would happen when Hawke found out?

  
  


* * *

It seemed as though Varric had just shut his eyes when Brynjolf began shaking him awake. 

“Time to move on, Lad. This next push will get us home, then you can sleep all you need.” 

The dwarf grumbled something as he pushed himself up from the bed. His entire body was one big ache. His muscles screaming in protest as he got onto his feet and nodded at the redhead. 

“Alright,” he managed to grind out.

Varric followed Brynjolf out into the fading light of day. Delvin awaited them, already on his mount, but Vex was nowhere to be seen. 

The rogue climbed onto his horse, this time without assistance, and raised a brow at Brynolf. 

“Are we missing someone?”

The redhead’s eyes briefly flashed. Then he blinked and shook his head, the mask back in place. “Vex has chosen to ride ahead.”

“I see,” Varric said, his mind replaying Vex’s reaction to the job Brynolf had “recruited” him for. 

“Don’t overthink it,” Brynolf said as they moved out onto the road. “Vex is our best infiltrator so she was sent to handle that little problem I mentioned to you a few weeks ago. But there was hired muscle we weren’t counting on being there and she wound up barely escaping. It’s the closest call she’s had in a while and it’s getting to her.”

“Understandable,” Varric said as he remembered several break ins he had taken part of back in Thedas. “If she’s your best then could I ask why you’re wanting me to take a shot at it? All you know about me is that I’m short, don’t do well in the cold and I’m great at pissing off nobles.” 

Brynolf turned his head to fix Varric with his piercing gaze. 

“So then? Tell me about yourself, Varric. How does one like you end up in the holding cell of the self appointed High King of Skyrim?” 

Varric’s groaned dramatically.

“You’re supposed to say something witty about how you can ‘sense my greatness’ or some shit. I expected more out of you than the same tired old ‘tell me your tragic backstory’, Brynolf!”

The redhead laughed, Delvin chuckling from not far ahead.

“Fine,” Varric continued. “I am from a land far far away. My best friend and I fell through what we call the Veil and somehow ended up here in your world. I am otherwise merely a humble _ and  _ unassuming merchant.”

“As am I,” Brynolf droled without batting an eye. “So, your friend, do they have any qualities that might be helpful to our operation?”

Varric didn’t even try to hide his smile as he thought about Hawke. 

The mage spouting sass as he attempted to lie his way into Chateau Haine. Hawke punching a Qunari Arishok in the face while dangling from the leader’s massive sword. The mage purposefully throwing the first game of strip Wicked Grace in order to distract Fenris, Anders and Isabela with his shirtless torso. 

“He does,” the rogue said beaming. “He is a man of many, many talents.”

“Well then I look forward to meeting him. In the meantime,” Brynjolf’s time shifted into something more serious, “I’ll need you to follow through on your end of our deal.”

Varric nodded slowly but firmly.

“Listen, you’re not putting me in a cage and I promised a favor for a favor. I’ll see my part through. Then we can go out separate ways.”

Brynolf cast Varric a look as he said, “Or you might choose to stay. We may be thieves but we take care of our own. You would have a place to stay, jobs to put coin in your pocket and contacts across all of Skyrim.”

The dwarf shook his head. 

“As much as I like the idea, we need to get back to where we came from. I don’t know how we’ll do it, but that has to be my primary focus after I repay you.”


	8. The Ol' Razzle Dazzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when you leave a virginal mage and a snarky werewolf unsupervised?  
Will Varric's pickup lines work on a certain Mercer Frey?  
And is Meron's boot going to get stuck in Ulfric's ass?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really good to be back at this one you guys. I have no idea if this is going to flush out the way I envision it but in the meantime I am just having a blast. Thank you to those of your who are revisiting this little tale, your continued support means everything! To any newcomers, I hope you enjoy and stick around for the next, albeit sporadic, installment. Enjoy!

The journey to Brynjolf’s home was thankfully uneventful. Varric was actually able to enjoy the scenery of the land he currently found himself stuck in, and Maker, it was a sight. The snow peaked mountains eventually began to give way to a lush valley full of all manner of wildlife. Raging rivers and merry creeks cut the landscape into a dazzling quilt of flowers and high meadow grasses. The trees that rose up from the valley were beautifully colored, indicating that they were closer to Skyrim’s Autumn season. The road before them wound lazily and seemingly unending through the countryside. Then, just as the sun had begun to set, Varric’s eyes could make out the juts of rooftops in the distance. 

“Is that where we are headed?”

Brynjolf nodded, a small grin on his face. “Aye. That is Riften, the City of Thieves!”

“Do they really call it that or is that an embellishment from you?”

“I’m sure some would call it so,” the redhead said as he shrugged his thick shoulders. “It is home to the Thieves Guild after all.”

“So, that’s the  _ family _ you’ve been talking about then? You’re an actual guild?”

Briefly Varric wondered if they might have a merchants guild as well?

“We are, though we’ve had a run of bad luck as of late,” Brynjolf admitted, his voice low. “I aim to change our luck though. And I have a feeling that you could be a key in doing just that.”

“Huh, well, I have been known to be quite lucky myself,” Varric admitted, smiling. “Even if most of it is dumb luck.”

Another fox grin.

“Luck is luck.”

The redhead dismounted at the stables seated just outside the city. Delvin stayed behind to settle things with the horsemaster while Varric followed Brynjolf into the city proper. 

It was a cozy looking place. Built out over the nearby lake the entire city thrummed with the white noise of water licking and slapping its way along the stilts holding the city up. People bustled about on their way back home as the sunlight faded behind the far mountain peaks.

Varric and Brynjolf passed a modest marketplace, beyond which rose a powerful stone keep and then continued around said keep to a small graveyard. 

Varric hummed as he eyed the tombstones. 

“You know it would have been easier to just kill me in the woods and leave my body for the wolves. Unless you’re very religious and burying me will ease the burden on your soul and all that?”

Brynjolf let out a barking laugh and shook his head.

“Being the Jarl’s prisoner has made you paranoid, Varric. I’d at least not be so foolish to murder you before you pay me back that favor. Give me  _ some _ credit.”

Varric bowed slightly, “My deepest apologies. I would do well to remember that you are a pragmatic one. So then, why the graveyard?”

“Most people don’t go poking around here,” the redhead said as he stepped into the mausoleum seated at the end of the graveyard. “That makes it perfect for a back door.”

The rogue reached down and pressed the stone in the center of the structure’s base. Varric’s eyes widened as the floor of the building abruptly slid back to reveal some stone steps leading down to a porthole. 

“Come on then,” the redhead said descending the small set of steps and pulling away the cover. 

Varric followed obediently; down the steps, to a ladder and then down further into the depths beneath Riften. 

  
  


Varric had seen a lot of “operations” in his lifetime. Few had been able to match the merchant guild in grandeur or expanse, so when he and Brynjolf arrived in the thieves guild beneath Riften he wasn’t overly disappointed. 

But, he was still a little disappointed. 

Brynjolf hadn’t been kidding about the “bad luck”. The cavernous chamber before them was obviously a ghostly shell of what it had once been. Varric could practically  _ feel _ the old thrum of danger and vibrance one could only obtain from a collection of rogues. But it was now dulled, muted and weak. 

“Come on,” Brynjolf said as his lips pressed into a thin line. “I will need to introduce you to our guildmaster, Mercer.

_ ‘Who names their kid, Mercer,’ _ Varric wondered as the redhead waved at a man seated behind a desk across the room. The stranger was instantly on his feet and striding towards Brynjolf, his face a sour frowning visage. 

“Brynjolf...I have to send two of our best after you after you get yourself caught and what do you do with our time and resources? Bring a tagalong! One, I might add, that I did not approve.”

“This one is different, Mercer,” Brynjolf said without so much as a blink. “He’s worth the effort.”

“Ah, I see. You think that assisting in the escape of one of  _ Ulfric Stormcloak’s prisoners _ is going to bring us back to glory? It’s going to get us run out or worse. What were you thinking!”

“He can handle Goldenglow.”

That made the guildmaster pause. Then the frown deepened, “You think so?”

Brynjolf nodded, the motion sharp. “Aye. He can.”

Mercer finally turned his gaze fully upon Varric. The dwarf had waited patiently as the two humans spoke. Eyeing the guildmaster’s equipment and his body language. If Brynjolf was dangerous, Mercer was deadly. The man seemed to be like a drawn bowstring, ready to unleash at any moment. Perhaps a bit paranoid, but if things had been going poorly for his guild, Varric could comprehend that. He didn’t like outsiders either which was fairly typical. 

“You. What is your name?”

“Varric Tethras, at your service.”

It was a practiced line. One he used to introduce himself often. Briefly the stinging memory of greeting one, Garrett Hawke, with the same steady oration zipped through his mind. 

It had worked then.

And it was working now. 

Mercer’s frown lessened slightly, body opening up as the man turned more fully to look down at the dwarf. 

“Mercer Frey,” the guildmaster said, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions...you do what we say, when we say. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course,” Varric said nodding. And he did understand this part, the mechanics of it all. People needed to report to someone, even if sometimes they went around them. Guilds needed order, without order there was a harder time making profit. And hence the web of rules that they all had to dance through. 

Something flashed in Mercer’s eyes, understanding. And the human grinned. Varric had to willfully resist the urge to cringe at the sight. It was a reptilian pull of lips over too sharp teeth. 

“Alright then. Since Brynjolf is assuring me that you’ll be worth it, welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“There it is.”

Hawke peered over the natural rock wall that he and Farkas were currently hiding behind and let is eyes roam over Fellglow. He could see at least two people moving about in the low light of the moon, along with something that seemed to float rather than walk that was, of course, on fire.

How he longed for Varric or Meron then. Either of the rogues could have easily dispatched the two guards from that distance, and whatever  _ that _ was.

“Okay so the plan…”

“We sneak along as much as we can but once we are seen, I charge in and you cover me. But don’t follow in too close. I don’t want anyone getting around me and to you.”

Hawke bit back his instinctive, ‘ _ I can handle myself _ ,’ and nodded. 

“Here we go.” 

The duo crept down from their hiding spot and moved along in the tall grass until they reached the open area between them and where the guards stood milling about. Farkas shifted his footing and exploded out of the cover. The werewolf hurtled towards the two mages like a loosed arrow. He did not shout a warcry to send fear rippling through his foes. It was unnecessary anyway. 

Even from back where he stood, Hawke could hear the warrior’s blade whistling through the air as it carved a path towards its target. 

The fighting was quick. Hawke barely having time to fire a bolt of lightning before the guards lay dead. The mage quickly turned, lightning in his palms, to face the fiery creature, only to find that it had fallen when one of the mages had. 

They moved into the keep then. Garrett watched Farkas’ back (professionally), obeying the order to stand clear during the close quarters fighting. The warrior rarely gave the mage a chance to fire a single shot as it was, expertly cutting down each foe in only a few swings. Garrett found that he was more useful at casting barriers around his companion, shielding him from incoming magical attacks as well as physical, while Farkas cleared the path forward.

They reached an area that was quite obviously a dungeon, complete with torture racks and cages. Farkas’ whole body suddenly bristled, his eyes moving around the room. 

“Wait here,” he said to Hawke. He crept forward, nostrils flaring as he tried to figure out exactly where the smell of vampire was coming from. A noise from around the corner spurred him to action. He raced around and before the rebel mage could turn to face him, decapitated them. 

Hawke didn’t like being told to stay so he careful began moving about the cleared room in search of any treasures or useful items. 

“You there,” a voice rasped.

The mage turned and found himself facing a row of cells, two of which were occupied. The people within looked shockingly pale and their eyes seemed to almost burn within their skulls. 

“Release us,” one said, voice dry. “Do this and we shall bring you no harm. Our kin were taken by these mages. We have listened to their screams fall silent some time ago. Release us, that we may avenge them.” 

Hawke moved closer to the cells. Regardless of what these people where, for they had to be something a bit more than mere humans, he felt for them. What was more, he believed them.

“Alright.” 

He walked forward, removing a lockpick from his pocket…

A hand closed around his arm like a vice and yanked Garrett to a sudden halt. 

Farkas’ breath was hot against his ear and neck as the werewolf growled, “What are you doing?”

Hawke swallowed, “I was going to let them out?”

“Those are _vampires_, Hawke.”

Farkas was attempting to keep his tone level but he was completely out of sorts. He knew he had been smelling vampire since they got into the building and he had been ready to face them at any moment. He had not been prepared to walk back around a corner and find Hawke nearly within arms reach of two of them. 

The thought of what might have happened if he had not come back when he did, chilled the warrior to the bone. 

“Oh...they said their friends were killed by these mages...that they would help if I let them out.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Fool  _ beast _ ,” the vampire closest to Hawke hissed. “Our kin lay dead at the hands of these mages. We wish for nothing more than to avenge them. Let those who wrought their end sate our thirst. We have no intention of wasting time with the ancient blood feud!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see them again soon enough,” Farkas said as he hefted his blade from his back. Again the pair of vampires hissed, baring their fangs, as they each shrank back into their cells.

“Wait!”

This time it was Hawke’s hand that stilled Farkas’ movement. The werewolf cast an incredulous look at the mage and found Garrett’s eyes gleaming. 

“Listen, we could take them if they turned on us. But I believe them.”

Farkas gaped at the mage. 

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am. Farkas listen, trust me on this. Please?” 

The warrior hesitated, eyes flicking from between the vampires and Hawke. The mage was looking at him with such earnesty. The vampire’s eyes burned but with rage, not hunger…

He was going to regret this, Farkas just knew it.

“Fine,” the werewolf said, keeping his sword in his hands as he nodded towards some levers nearby. “Go let them out, Mage. But keep your staff handy.” 

Hawke beamed at the warrior who then shifted his hard gaze to the vampires before him. He wasted no time in moving to the levers and flipping each until the gates to the occupied cages opened. 

The leader of the two vampires nodded to Hawke when he emerged from his cell.

“I thank you, human,” then, moving his too bright gaze to Farkas, “and you.” 

That said the two vampires lurched towards the hallway leading further into the keep’s belly and disappeared from view.

Farkas listened to the footfalls move away until he was certain the creatures weren’t doubling back. Then he turned and stormed over to where Hawke stood.

He wanted to shake the damn mage for being too trusting and for nearly walking right into the grasp of an undead blood drinker. He was also outraged at himself for agreeing to release them just because Hawke looked at him with doe eyes. 

But the happy light in the mage’s eyes now caused the warrior to heave a weary sigh instead. 

Unthinking he reached out to grasp Hawke’s face in one of his large hands. He forced the mage to look him in the eyes, his fingers firm upon the square jaw beneath them. 

“You have quite the heart, Garrett Hawke. See that you have enough sense to keep it firmly in your chest.” 

  
  


Hours later Hawke could still feel the burn of Farkas’ hand on his jaw. 

It was a completely ridiculous reaction considering everything else that they had just been through. Finding the thieving mage who had taken the books from the College to begin with. Facing down a woman known as, The Caller, and somehow convincing her to part with said tombs. It was enough to make the mage’s head spin. 

And yet, the hand upon his face was what had Hawke hung up as he stoked a small fire to life in the damp pile of wood before him. 

They had elected to move several miles away from Fellglow before bunking down for the rest of the night. Farkas was currently off scouting which left Garrett to get a fire and something to eat. The mage rummaged about in their packs until he had consolidated the ingredients for a fairly hearty stew. The mixture just coming to a simmer when the crunch of heavy footfalls alerted Hawke that he was no longer alone. 

Garrett reached for his staff out of habit, though somehow he already knew that the footsteps belonged to Farkas. 

“It’s just me,” that familiar low voice said as the werewolf came to stand just behind the mage.

Hawke tipped his head back and smiled up at the warrior. 

“Dinner will be ready in just a bit. How did it look out there?”

“We’re alone enough. Some animals might wander by but I didn’t find any other traces of camps or people.” 

‘ _ Or blood suckers,’  _ Farkas added quietly to himself. 

  
“That’s good,” Hawke said turning his gaze back to the fire. “Come, sit and warm yourself. We can talk while we wait for the stew to finish.”

Farkas dutifully sank down next to the mage and gazed into the fire. A companionable silence stretched between them for a few minutes then the warrior cleared his throat.

“So, since we have the time, tell me more about where you are from, Hawke? What is this, Thedas, like?”

“In constant turmoil it would seem,” the mage said dryly. “But it has its charms. Ferelden is where I grew up. It is a cold land, like Skyrim. People there love their dogs,” he added shooting the werewolf a laughing grin.

Farkas raised a brow, an answering smile on his lips.

“Do they? I would have never guessed that.” 

Hawke cleared his throat. “Yes um...war dogs are highly prized members of most families. They are called mabari, fearsome big animals. And the smartest breed there is.” 

“Did you have one?”

Hawke’s smile waned ever so slightly, his eyes lost in a wash of memories that flickered through his mind before he said, “Yes. She was the best friend anyone could ask for. I had her since I was very young, we grew up together like siblings in a way. But dogs do not live as long as humans. She passed away and was buried at my mother’s ancestral estate in Kirkwall. In her sleep, curled up in my bed, a merry fire roaring in the hearth and her belly full, as she deserved it to be.” 

Hawke fell silent for another moment before a burst of anxious laughter clamoured from his throat. “You must think me to be a terribly melancholy person...all of my stories end in death, betrayal or some other sad thing.” 

Farkas let his eyes roam over Garrett’s face, catching and holding the mage’s gaze before he said, “I think that you are brave. More so than most, considering that you have not allowed your hardships to shape who you are. You remain kind and forgiving even as your life has forced you to become skilled in both war and guile. I admire you, Hawke, and that is not something I have said to many.” 

Hawke blushed and turned his gaze away from Farkas’.

A hand.

That same strong hand closed around Garrett’s jaw. The fingers were once again firm, but there was a tenderness there that he had not been prepared for. Farkas carefully forced the mage’s gaze back up to meet those milky orbs. 

The warrior smiled. “I mean it,” he said and the words shivered down into Hawke’s core. 

The mage licked his lips and felt his heart begin to beat in earnest when he noticed the warrior’s gaze drift down to his mouth. 

* * *

Meron’s breath came out in a jet of mist. The elf shivered slightly in the light of dusk, as golden eyes beheld the gates of Windhelm. They had made excellent time and arrived at the gates of Windhelm with a couple of days to spare before Ulfric had said he would execute Hawke’s friend. It might have had something to do with the beautiful mount the elf had stolen from a group of bandits only a few miles after splitting off from Hawke and Farkas. It also had to do with the fire that had been burning in Meron’s belly since reading Ulfric’s demand to meet. 

The ‘true’ king wanted an audience with the Dragonborn so badly he would resort to blackmail? Then an audience he would get! 

The rogue shrugged off the feeling of dread that had settled in their gut alongside their rage, and made their way inside the city. 

All seemed quiet enough as the elf moved through the main quarter of the city and up to the courtyard of the Palace of Kings. Without hesitation the elf marched up to the main doors of the palace and without waiting for the stationed guards to inquire or assist, flung them open. 

The sound of the doors at the entrance to the palace crashing open made Ulfric pause from his place bent over a map in a nearby room. Galmar’s hand was instantly on the grip of his axe as the warrior moved to the doorway leading to the main hall of the palace. 

“Trouble,” Ulfric asked, his own hand on the hilt of his sword.

“An elf...never seen them before…”

A voice, clear and commanding called out, “Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak! It is I, the Dragonborn, here to answer your summons!” 

Galmar cast Ulfric a look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. 

Ulfric kept his hand on the hilt of his blade as he stepped past Galmar and into the main hall to face the supposed Dragonborn. The Jarl found his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the Mer currently advancing towards him. It was a reaction he was careful to not show outwardly but by Talos, the elf was beautiful in the fiercest sense of the word. 

Golden skin that seemed almost firey in the light of the hall’s burning sconces. Eyes that cooly assessed him while glimmering like septims in the sun. The elven armor they wore only accented their angular face and complimented the lithe body of a ranger. 

The Mer stopped when they were only a few feet away, eyes dragging up and down Ulfric’s form in a quick assessment. Ulfric met the Mer’s glare and quickly noted that those orbs also held a touch of gemstone green.

Then the Dragonborn nodded sharply.

“So, here you are, and here I am. Now, where is Varric?” 


	9. How to Offend Nobles and Other White Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time there was a very awkward werewolf and a handsome mage about to smooch in the moonlight on a chilly mountain side. There was also a hella pissed off elf who wanted nothing more than to spit on nobles and headbutt dragons. And a dwarf going through an existential crisis due to crossbow withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM HERE. I AM QUEER. I am ready to bust out another chapter before vanishing into my seasonal depression for another embarrassingly long time. Never fear, I always resurface! This time of year just tends to punch me squarely in the face. A lot. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next installment. It's a bit choppy but hey, it is HERE :)

Meron just knew that their blood pressure was going to go through the roof before this interlude was over. Instead of answering their demand to see Hawke’s friend, Ulfric had insisted that they sit down and talk over dinner first. The elf had cooly declined, several times, before finally agreeing just so that they could get a move on with the whole situation.

Ulfric’s steward poured them each a mug of ale before retreating leaving them mostly alone at the ridiculously large table. 

“Eat, Dragonborn,” Ulfric insisted as he took a long drink. 

The elf sighed, rolling their eyes, before beginning to tuck into their meal. They tried not to show it but damn, the food was good. As they sipped their ale Ulfric spoke again.

“I appreciate the opportunity to finally meet with you, Dragonborn…why do you smile like that?”

The Mer let out a chuckle and shook their head, eyes finally coming up to pierce Ulfric’s own gaze. 

“You _ blackmailed _ me with another’s life in order to get me here and yet you cannot recall that this is not our first meeting,” the elf shook their head.

Ulfric stared at the golden skinned Mer with intent eyes. 

Then it clicked. 

Seated in the back of a wagon, headed to Helgen to be executed along with Ralof and some of his other men. Two faces had been out of place, the horse thief and the elf. A scrawny thing clothed in rags but with eyes that burned green and gold. The stalwart way they had approached the executioner’s block, head held high, unafraid to meet their gods had been burned into Ulfric’s memory ever since. 

He had admittedly been captivated then as surely as he had been seeing them today. 

And now, that same Mer was the Dragonborn. Outfitted in gilded elven armor, weapons hanging from their belt and back, prepared to take on any challenge that might come to them. 

“Forgive me. Much has changed about you since Helgen.”

“Ah, so you did notice me afterall,” Meron said, tone biting. “I suppose a lowly elf like me should be grateful?”

Ulfric’s nose wrinkled at that. 

“You speak as if I do not fight for all of Skyrim’s people...”

“Save your bluster for the needlebrained public, Stormcloak,” Meron hissed. “You fight for your people and _ your people _ are Nords, period. In your own city you have segregated the Dunmer to their own quarter, which amounts to an unguarded slum. Argonians are not even _ allowed _ to live within these city walls, instead they must huddle together in shared quarters off of the docks where they work to haul the imports that keep your city thriving and your soldier’s outfitted and fed! What is it that you want from me,” Meron demanded then, shoving away their plate. “I’ve lost my appetite and I am only here to retrieve the one whose life you so carelessly hold over my head.” 

Ulfric sucked in a breath as the Mer’s words carved into his pride. 

He wanted to argue, but something in the elf’s eyes made him think better of it.

“I believe that it would be in Skyrim’s best interest to have you on our side of this war,” he said instead. “I have no desire to see this conflict drag on and on, for it is the people, all people, who will suffer. If you joined me, we could end this within the year! I wanted to meet you in the flesh to ask you this.”

“You did all of this...just to ask me to join your rebellion?”

The Jarl said nothing. 

Meron wanted to laugh. 

Instead the elf allowed their lips to twist into a sneer. 

“You nobles are all the same,” Meron hissed. “You each just want more power than the other. None of you actually care for the _ people _ of the realm. Not just Nords or Mer, not just those who would bow to you and support you. _ All _ of them. I am not a trump piece either you _ or _ Elisif can add to your game. I fight against something that threatens us all! Once I thought that of anyone _ you _, who they said trained for years in High Hrothgar, would understand the importance of my fight against Alduin.”

Meron shook their head and raised a had to cut off the human before he could utter a word in response. “I am weary of this conversation, Jarl Ulfric. Bring Varric to me, that we may rejoin my companions and continue with our work.” 

Ulfric’s hands were clenched into white knuckled fists in his lap. How dare this elf speak to him this way! How _ dare _ they compare him to that puppet Elisif. 

“I do not have this, Varric, you speak of,” Ulfric bit out, contempt evident in his voice. “He left my dungeons days ago, escaped with someone who I suspect was a member of the thieves guild.”

Meron’s tight lipped snarl sharpened. “So I have come all this way for nothing. Wonderful.”

That said the elf rose to their feet and stepped away from the table.

Without looking back at Ulfric they began to walk towards the main door of the palace. 

“You want to know why I fight, Elf,” Ulfric asked, his voice ice cold. “I fight for the men I’ve held in my arms, dying on foreign soil! I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breath. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I _ fight _ so that all the fighting I’ve already done hasn’t been for nothing! I fight...because I must.”

Meron turned to cast the Jarl a look over their shoulder.

“Then you do what you must, Jarl Ulfric. And I shall do the same.” 

Silence stretched between them, strained and terrible. Then a low rumble shuddered through the walls of the palace. 

Meron froze listening as beyond the door the sounds of people shouting began to grow louder. The frantic call to arms from the guards outside sealed the Mer’s fears.

A dragon.

Instantly the Dragonborn sprang into action, ripping their bow from their back and shoving their way into the courtyard beyond. They raced out into the center of the yard where a group of guards stood, eyes frantically scanning the sky overhead. 

“Hold men,” the elf shouted, notching an arrow. “Is it here or further into the city?”

“I-it just grabbed one of the archers from the wall,” one of the guards managed to stutter out. “Then it took off.”

“What color was it?”

“White as snow,” another whispered, sounding almost fervent.

A frost dragon then, Meron thought as the word ‘yol’ crackled on their tongue. 

“Here it comes again!” 

“Get to cover,” Meron commanded as they raised their bow. The guards scattered as the dragon, its maw red streaked, broke over the wall and dove towards them. Meron didn’t flinch as they fired their first arrow, seamlessly drawing the next before the first sank into the flesh of the beast’s throat.

The dragon roared its fury as it crashed down into the courtyard, the cobblestone cracking and buckling beneath its weight. 

As another arrow found its way into the joint of the dragon’s right shoulder its cold eyes focused on Meron’s form, and the dragon opened its mouth to hurl a blast of ice directly at the lone Mer. 

Ulfric had made it into the courtyard just in time to see the Dragonborn shout, “Yol toor shul!” An answering blast of fire erupted from the Mer colliding with the dragon’s cone of ice in a hiss of steam. 

Meron smiled, the flow of battle had seeped into their bones. It wasn’t their first frost dragon, nor the first time they had been forced to face such a beast alone. 

Then the dragon lunged forward, landing far closer than Meron had anticipated. 

The elf managed to remain upright but the ground heaved around them, causing them to stumble. The beast lashed out again, teeth reaching for the Dragonborn’s flailing arm. 

A heavy sword slashed across the dragon’s face, causing it to recoil, missing the Mer by inches. 

“Fus ro,” Ulfric shouted, driving the dragon back another step as he placed himself between the Dragonborn and their foe. 

Meron regained their footing, casting Ulfric a grateful nod as they darted forward to rejoin the fight. 

Meron might not have liked Ulfric Stormcloak but there was no denying the man’s prowess in the heat of battle. He moved cautiously, conserving his energy until the moment he could unleash a powerful series of swings or burst of thu’um. Together they danced around the dragon, evading the creature’s snapping jaws and jets of ice all the while answering with calculated strikes. A few of the braver guards had come back and were assisting with arrows and throwing axes of their own. It would be a long fight, but Meron knew that they could best the beast!

_ “Listener...” _

Meron’s feet faltered as an all too familiar voice hissed through their mind. The dry weaze of her voice was something that the elf felt in their teeth and that causes their skin to prickle with fear.

It had been so long since they had heard _ that _ voice call out to them. 

Not since…

_ “Listener!” _

Meron’s eyes abruptly shifted past the dragon to a shadowy corner where the courtyard joined one of the side streets leading into the city. 

There something shifted, a glimmer of ebony

Everything slowed as Meron cast a glance over their shoulder to where Ulfric Stormcloak stood, directly in the assassin’s line of sight.

It would have been so simple to do nothing, to hold their breath and allow the arrow to find its home in the Nord’s chest or eye. 

The civil war would be over in the space of a single heartbeat.

Meron felt the moment the arrow was loosed. 

The Mer moved without thinking. They threw themselves into the arrow’s path, crying out as the shaft drove through their chest just below their left shoulder. They staggered back, rage giving them the willpower necessary to send an answering arrow hurtling back at the shadow cloaked figure.

Then the wound began to burn and Meron’s arm went limp.

Poison. 

“Dragonborn!”

Meron looked up just in time to see the dragon’s tail as it collided with their side. 

The elf tried to protect their head as they were sent careening across the broken cobblestone of the yard. They bounced once, twice, something in their right side giving, before they came to rest near the far wall.

The elf groaned through the acidic pain now coursing through their chest and attempted to roll onto their uninjured side.

“To the Dragonborn,” Meron heard Ulfric thunder, though the sound of the Nord’s voice was warped and sluggish to their ears. 

The Mer managed to half sit up, just in time to see the dragon bearing down on them once more. The dragon lunged down at the exposed elf, jaws wide and bloody. 

Ulfric had rushed across the courtyard and reached the dragon just as it struck out at the Dragonborn. He tore his cloak from his shoulders and whipped it across the creature’s horned face, jerking mightily. 

It was enough to prevent the beast from snapping the elf up in its teeth. Ulfric then drove his sword into the gap between the dragon’s jaw bone and the beginning of its neck. 

The creature screamed, shrill and terrible.

As it thrashed, mortally wounded, Ulfric ducked down and sprinted to the injured Dragonborn’s side. The elf’s eyes were hazy and blinked in lazy recognition as he gathered the pettit rogue up into his arms. His men flooded the yard, hacking the dragon apart behind him, but Ulfric’s attention was fixated on the Dragonborn. 

Someone had attempted to take his life in the midst of the confusion of the dragon’s attack.

And after he had lured them to his city with lies and blackmail, the Mer had saved him. 

Ulfric’s eyes fell to the blackened wound in the elf’s shoulder. 

He heaved Meron up into his arms as he gained his feet and bellowed for Galmar to fetch Wuunferth. 

* * *

“Come along, Varric. No one will pay you any mind.”

Varric glanced up at Brynjolf, his lips pressed into a thin disagreeing line. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, Brynjolf, but I draw attention everywhere I go it seems.”

“Not here you won’t,” the redhead promised as his opened an iron gate and motioned for the dwarf to go first. Varric stepped out onto a wooden walkway and waited for Brynjolf to relock the gate before joining him. “Especially if you are with me. People tend to leave members of the Guild alone in Riften. As soon as they see you are one of us, they’ll give you plenty of space.”

“I hope you’re right,” Varric grumbled as he followed the redhead up a nearby stairway and onto a cobblestone path. Up ahead there was a bustling marketplace and Varric tried to keep his expression neutral even as he saw another lizard-man and another man whose skin was blue in color.

“Remind me to ask you some questions when we get back to your...base,” the dwarf said quietly.

Brynolf arched an eyebrow then followed Varric’s gaze to Madesi’s stand in the square. He recalled the way his fellow rogue had looked shocked upon seeing the dock worker who had assisted in their escape as well and chuckled.

“They are called Argonians, another of the races in Tamriel. Not as common in Skyrim, but like the Khajiit some have found here preferable to their homelands.”

“And, what is a Khajiit?”

“Like Argonians they have a somewhat more...animalistic appearance. They resemble cats however; ears, tail, fur, etc.”

“Huh,” Varric grunted shaking his head. He had thought that he had seen everything once he had come face to face with the creatures red lyrium could conjure. Now, cat and lizard people.

What was next, dog-men? 

“Speaking of,” Brynolf said, coming to a stop. “I was having something delivered here via one of the caravans. Would you do me a favor?”

“I am currently at your disposal so the question is probably moot.” 

Brynjolf laughed and passed Varric a bag of coins. 

“Take this and head out through the main gate,” the redhead gestured down the street. “If the caravan is here, you’ll see a cluster of tents beyond the stables just outside. Ask for Ahkari, she is the leader of the caravan. She should have a bundle of herbs for me. Take a look at their weapons while you are there as well. Tonilia is good at getting us the majority of our gear but the caravans tend to have a better selection of weapons.” 

Varric secured the coin purse to his belt as he nodded.

“I think I can handle that, but I should warn you, I have no idea what a ‘fair’ price is in this place.”

“And still something tells me that no merchant is going to be able to sway you into paying more than you have to,” Brynjolf shot back, baring his teeth in a flashing smile. “I will be there, at that stand in the plaza, when you return.”

Varric walked off down the street, allowing himself to settle into his usual carefree swagger, even if that was not how he felt. He moved out beyond the main gate and headed towards the stable that Brynjolf had mentioned. As he drew close to the building he could see a woman arguing with a man, something about coin owed? 

It was none of his concern so Varric skirted the building and continued down the short hill. He immediately caught sight of a close circle of tents among the trees and brush just off the main road. The Khajiit caravan was there then.

Varric approached the campsite his eyes falling on one of the human-like forms moving about near the fire. He thought that he hid his surprise well enough when the Khajiit closest to the road spotted him and nodded. 

“Greetings traveler,” the Khajiit purred in a voice that Varric was just certain Hawke would have loved. “Have you come to sample our wares?” 

Varric flashed a smile and nodded, “I am here to shop and to see about an order for Brynjolf.” 

The Khajiit’s eyes sparked in recognition. 

“Indeed. Follow me.”

Varric was lead to an open tent, in front of which sat another Khajiit. 

“This one is here for Brynjolf’s herbs,” the male Khajiit told the seated one, who nodded and rose to their feet.

“A moment, please,” she said to Varric before disappearing inside the tent. She reamerged a minute later with a satchel in hand. 

“This one had begun to worry. Brynjolf does not usually keep us waiting so long once he places an order.”

“The delay was not by choice, I assure you.”

The Khajiit purred low in her throat and nodded.

“With his line of work this is understandable. The price is still three hundred and seventy septims, as agreed.” 

As Varric carefully counted out the coin he said, “I also wanted to look at your selection of weapons? A crossbow would be preferable, if you have one.” 

Ahkari again purred thoughtfully. “We procured a very interesting crossbow on our way back to Riften from Dawnstar recently. I have a feeling that it may suite you. However, this one must warn you, it is a most difficult piece to handle.”

The caravan leader paused in front of a chest. She knelt and opened it, and pulled a familiar form from within it’s cloth padded depths.

Varric’s eyes widened.

“Bianca!” 

Ahkari started, eyeing Varric as she stood with the crossbow in her clawed hands. 

“That is _ my _ crossbow. I lost it when I...I had an accident that indisposed me similarly to Brynjolf. During, I lost my weapon, and that is _ it _!”

Ahkari hesitated, looking wary. 

It suddenly occurred to Varric that the caravan leader was in an awkward position. He could have been lying about being the owner of an item that was obviously finely crafted and worth its weight in gold. But even if he _ was _ lying, these people obviously had some sort of understanding with Brynjolf and his Guild. To go against a member could mean trouble for this little band. 

Varric pulled the coin purse back into view and smiled, “Would you say that two hundred septims is a fair finder’s fee?”

Ahkari’s shoulders released their tension as she grinned. 

“This one is happy to have been of service!”

Several minutes later Varric made his way back to Bryjnolf’s side. The familiar weight of Bianca at his back helping him to reclaim some of his confidence. He had found his crossbow, he had protection and he knew that Hawke was at least alive. All he had to do now was complete the job and repay his debt to Brynjolf and he would be on his way.

Things were looking up. 

* * *

  
  


Farkas couldn’t help but notice how soft the mage’s lips looked when Hawke’s tongue passed over them.

The warrior let his hand fall away from the mage’s bearded jaw and settled it on Hawke’s left knee, squeezing ever so slightly. 

Hawke’s lips fell apart in a silent gasp and Ysgramor help him, Farkas wanted to taste those lips more than he had ever wanted anything else. 

The warrior leaned in, his breath catching in his throat as Hawke’s eyes fluttered closed. Then he stopped, his own eyes squeezing shut as a pang of guilt lashed through his belly. 

Slowly Farkas sat back and patted the mage’s knee. Immediately Hawke’s eyes flew open, confused. 

“Hawke,” Farkas said roughly as his emotions warred within him. He did not know what was going on with him and the mage, but if anything were going to happen he couldn’t have a lie hanging over them when it did.

“What is it Farkas?”

_ ‘Sorry, Meron.’ _

The werewolf heaved a heavy sigh, his hand slipping away from the mage’s knee as he bowed his head. “I have been keeping something from you…”

Hawke blinked.

“What do you mean,” the mage asked carefully, ice creeping into his spine. 

“Meron is not looking for books, like we have been,” the warrior said in a rush. “When Meron wrote the outpost near Windhelm to inquire about your friend they received a response from the Jarl of the city himself. The Jarl there is also the leader of the rebellion against the Empire and he’s been trying to get the Dragonborn to meet with him for months now. He...claims to have your friend in his dungeons and used Varric’s freedom as leverage to get Meron to meet with him. That is why Meron went alone.”

Hawke gaped at the warrior.

Then slowly Farkas watched as rage crept into the mage’s eyes. The air around them heated up a noticeable degree as Hawke rose to his feet and walked a few paces away, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

For a few minutes all was quiet and Farkas just knew that his honesty had cost him something dear indeed. 

Suddenly the mage spun back around and strode over to stand before Farkas, eyes still blazing.

“What is the fastest way to Windhelm?”


	10. Anger Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke meets Varric's kidnapper and Farkas absolutely does NOT think about their almost kiss, like at all!  
Meron is a tad dramatic about poison, that'll happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no post. I know. Between another project, being an essential worker, COVID19 and you know writer's block...it's been a weird time guys. I hope you are all doing well! Perhaps if not, this little story can offer you a brief reprieve. Love, peace and chicken grease as always! Thank you for your support and I hope you enjoy this latest long overdue chapter.

Ulfric took the Dragonborn to his own chambers, Wuunferth not far behind. He laid the mer out across his pelts and stepped back so that the mage could get to work. A few minutes later Nurelion appeared with Galmar. 

“What happened,” Galmar asked, coming to stand beside Ulfric. 

The jarl watched unblinking as Nurelion began to inspect the wound to the mer’s shoulder.

“Someone attempted to assassinate me. The Dragonborn took the arrow for me,” Ulfris said, sounding hollow. “It was poisoned.”

Nurelion and Wuunferth began speaking in hushed tones until both men nodded. Wuunferth stepped back from the bed as the elven alchemist began pulling vials from the satchel at his side. The mage made his way to where the jarl and his second in command stood.

“Will they live,” Ulfric asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

“Nurelion says that the poison is one of the most concentrated wasting toxins he has ever seen. In short, it is a miracle in and of itself that the Dragonborn still draws breath now. We can work together to postpone the inevitable, but it would take a mage far more talented than I in restoration to save their life. My recommendation would be someone ride to the College in Winterhold and summon Colette Marence, she is a master of the craft. It may still be too late...but that is our only option. The Dragonborn is strong and their dragon’s blood may assist them in resisting the poison just long enough to seek help.” 

“I will go at once,” Ulfric said, moving for the door.

“Have you gone daft,” Galmar thundered.

A hand closing around his arm like a vice halted the jarl’s stride. 

“The assassin is still out there, Ulfric,” Galmar hissed. “I will send one of my men. And you, will remain in the keep until I sort this business out.” 

For a moment Ulfric intended to shove off Glamar’s hand and continue his mad dash for the stables but then he realized how foolish his actions would have been. He relaxed and so did Galmar’s grip as he saw sense returning to his jarl’s eyes.

“Hurry then,” Ulfric ordered.

Galmar gave the younger man a slap on his shoulder and then quickly made his way towards the quarters that housed his men. 

Ulfric then looked to Wuunferth and asked, “What can I do?” 

* * *

Farkas trudged along the winding snow blown road to Windhelm with Hawke only a few steps behind. The mage had been mostly silent after his outburst days prior. Farkas would simply state when it was time to stop for the night, or warn the mage if he heard something approaching. The mage nodded his responses for the most part.

The werewolf missed bantering with the handsome mage and it bothered him that he didn’t know how to repair the odd rift that rose between them now.

The big warrior heaved a sigh. He couldn’t wait to see Meron again. 

He needed his friend. The damn mer always knew what to do.

“How far are we from the city,” Hawke suddenly asked. 

Farkas hazarded a glance back at the mage before nodding ahead. 

“We should reach the city in a day’s time, perhaps sooner, if we keep up this pace.”

“What kind of welcome do you think we can expect?”

“That I do not know,” Farkas said tentatively. “It will probably depend on what Meron has gotten up to. The fact that we haven’t seen the mer on the road means that they must still be in the city.”

“Do you think that it is by choice?”

At that Farkas chuckled. “I think that you would be hard pressed to get Meron to do anything that they do not wish to do. Besides, the title of Dragonborn does offer some protection. Even Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak would have a hard time defending harming someone so renowned.” 

“Say that Meron is also now a prisoner, along with Varric...what would we do then?”

“It would not be my first time breaking into, or out of, a prison,” Farkas said with a shrug. “And we have proven to be an effective team, I’m sure we would manage something.” 

That said Farkas turned his gaze back to the road ahead and tried to not think about just how good of a team he and Hawke could have turned out to be.

He also tried desperately to not think about how close he had been to kissing the mage.

That little gasp, the answering spark of want in the mage’s eyes as he had leaned in…

The warrior shook his head.

He needed to get it together. 

The Dragonborn was potentially in danger, he should have his thoughts wrapped around  _ that _ instead of the idea of wrapping himself around someone who clearly didn’t want anything to do with him any longer.

Suddenly Farkas halted and Hawke slammed right into the back of him. The warrior barely flinched, his focus on the sound of hoofbeats drawing near. 

“What is it,” Hawke asked as he peeled himself off of the warrior. 

“Someone coming up the road, and it sounds like they are in quite the hurry.”  
“Meron?”

Farkas doubted it and in response drew his blade from his back, “We shall know shortly.” 

A few moments later a rider came into view over the crest in the road. The man spotted the duo on the roadside and slowled his mount as he raised a hand in welcome. 

“Hold. Are you travelers or bandits? I haven’t the time to spare your lives should it be the latter.”

“We travel to Windhelm. I am Farkas, of the Companions,” the warrior called back. 

“Ah,” the rider said, relaxing and walking his mount closer. “Forgive me Companion, I did not recognize it from so far away.”  
“All is well,” Farkas said, placing his sword back in its scabbard. He took note of the man’s armor and inclined his head. “Trouble, Stormcloack? You ride as if Vaermina herself were after you.”

“It is not every day that a man rides to save the life of the Dragonborn.”

“The life of...what do you mean,” Farkas demanded. The werewolf’s every nerve alighting upon hearing the man’s words.

“I only know what I was told,” the soldier said, looking anxious. “I am to ride to the College and find the Master of Restoration as the Dragonborn’s life depends upon it.”

Farkas looked back at the wide eyed Hawke before turning back to the soldier. 

“The Dragonborn is our traveling companion. We were making our way to meet with them in Windhelm. This is Garrett, a mage of unparalleled skill, and a healer as well. Take him to the city with you. Winterhold is a two day ride from here and that is if you are not slowed by storms or beasts.”

“This mage is more skilled than the college master,” the soldier asked, hesitating.

“Yes! Now take him and go,” Farkas growled. He then turned to Hawke, gripping the mage’s hand tightly. “I don’t know what awaits you in Windhelm, but I promise you, I will be only a day behind you. You must help Meron!” 

* * *

_ “I will not kill him.” _

_ Meron watched her shoulders stiffen. She turned back to face the elf, her lips a thin pressed line. Her eyes glimmered in the low candlelight like dew on a snake’s scales. Her head tilted slightly causing her fiery braid to drop down over her shoulder.  _

_ “You would dare to disobey my order?” _

_ “He has cared for Her, brought Her to us...that means something,” Meron said resolutely.  _

_ Astrid’s eyes narrowed further, “You enjoy the vanity he bestows you too much I think. Calling you the Listener has finally gone to your head.” _

_ Meron scoffed, “You believe this is about my vanity? I have heard Her voice in the darkness! Is this not what you yourself claimed to be waiting for! Is this not the very thing you wanted?” _

_ “I don’t believe you,” Astrid spat, suddenly striding towards the elf. “You think to replace me, don’t you!” _

_ The accusation made Meron falter back a step, eyes wide. “Astrid, that is not true!” _

_ “Liar,” Astrid sneered, taking another step forward. _

_ Meron felt the whisper before it was heard in the corners of the elf’s mind. _

_ ‘Run!’ _

_ Meron leapt back as Astrid’s dagger carved across the surface of the rogue’s leather jerkin. The elf dropped low and swept a leg sharply beneath the human woman’s ankles, knocking her off her feet. Then the elf was back up and running in the same instant. Feet barely touching the ground as Meron flew from the Dark Brotherhood lair.  _

_ Don’t look back. _

_ Don’t look back! _

_ Meron had run until their legs had given out. Then they had crawled to a river and dumped themselves into the fast moving current.  _

_ The current had been so strong. _

_ It had been a miracle that they had not drowned. _

_ They had to fight. _

  
  


Ulfric was back at Meron’s bedside as soon as the mer had begun to stir.

Nurelion had gone back to his shop to restock his supplies, while Wuunferth had moved back to his study in order to seek out any restoration spells that he might be able to utilize. This left Ulfric alone to stand guard over the alarmingly pale mer. 

“M-mother,” the rasped word fell from Meron’s cracked lips as the elf’s head began to toss.

Ulfric’s brow furrowed as he watched the mer’s face shift beneath the seemingly ever present sheen of sweat.

“Dovahkiin,” he said gently.

“S-She...strikes...from the shadows,” the mer wheezed weakly, as their breathing became labored. 

“Ease, Dovahkiin,” the jarl soothed, reaching a hand out to rest on the mer’s forehead. “Be at ease. No one is in the shadows here.” 

Surprisingly Meron quieted at the contact, their breathing slowing until it became even with sleep once more.

Ulfric was at a loss. He was used to being a man of action. He did what had to be done and he never looked back. And yet he now saw that his treatment of Varric had been a grave mistake as was attempting to strongarm the Dragonborn to his cause. 

It ate at him.

Ulfric shook his head, knowing that this mindset was one he would have to conquer. He was a military leader, he had to make decisions and live with those consequences. As a king, it would be the same. But that was not to say he would not admit when he had been wrong. 

He needed to make things right with the Dragonborn.

If that were even possible.

He supposed attempting to ensure that they lived was as good a start as any?

The breaking light of dawn rose and ripened into the brighter light of mid-day, Ulfric counted the hours by the shifting of his own shadow on the floor, refusing to leave the Dragonborn’s side. Nurelion came and went along with Wuunfert, each doing all they could before retreating to recoup their strengths. Galmar came once to inform the jarl that the assassin seemed to have feld without a trace.

More good news.

Ulfric was just beginning to nod off when suddenly he heard the horns at the gate signalling a rider approaching. The jarl frowned as he found his feet and his sword. The soldier who Galmar had sent to the college would still be two days from reaching the mages, it could not be the same rider.

Unless something had gone wrong?

Quickly, Ulfric made his way down into the main hall and out into the courtyard where just a day ago he had fought at the Dragonborn’s side. He was nearly to the city proper when the rider burst into the yard calling for Galmar. The jarl moved into the rider’s path and instantly the soldier drew their horse to a halt and dismounted. 

“What happened,” Ulfric demanded as a guard moved forward to catch the horse’s reins.

“Jarl Ulfric,” the soldier gasped. “I was on the road to Winterhold, as I was ordered, when I came upon a Companion who claimed to know the Dragonborn. With him traveled this mage. They said they could help!” The soldier motioned to the tall man who had dismounted just behind him and in an instant Ulfric knew who it was he was facing.

“Hawke,” the jarl asked, taking in the stranger’s unfamiliar armor. 

“Jarl Ulfric, I presume,” Hawke said coolly. 

_ The one who took my friend prisoner _ .

Hawke drew a steadying breath as he took the measure of the man before him. It would not do anyone any good for him to punch the jarl square in his face, but Maker how he wanted to. 

“I am,” Ulfric said levely, noting the mage’s clenched fists. “Come, the Dragonborn is in need of your skill. You and I can speak once the danger has passed.” 

Hawke didn’t trust his mouth just yet, so he nodded his agreement. 

Ulfric led the way into an impressive keep, through a twisting maze of halls before they came to a large door where the jarl paused. 

“For what it is worth,” he said suddenly, focusing his gaze on the mage before him. “I am sorry.” That said Ulfric pushed aside the door and allowed Hawke to enter his chambers. 

“Meron,” the mage breathed as he rushed to the bed where the elf lay. The Dragonborn looked listless. Hawke instantly set a hand to Meron’s head, letting his magic reach out to find wounds. His hand trembled slightly as he peeled back the bandage laying over the elf’s shoulder to reveal the blackened flesh beneath. “Poison,” he asked, looking back to Ulfric who nodded his confirmation.

“Okay, hang in there Meron. I’m here,” Hawke said as he began to gather his magic. “Do you have any lyrium potions,” Hawke asked.

Another man entered the room, wearing robes similar to those of the mages from the college. 

“Lyrium,” Ulfric echoed, sounding uncertain, his gaze sliding to the man beside him. 

“Lyrium. Er, whatever it is, your mages use to fuel their powers once their internal stores have been used up,” Hawke said, imploringly looking at the man at Ulfric’s side.

“Magicka,” Wuunferth said simply. “I have plenty in my chambers. I shall bring you all that I can carry.” That said the elderly mage turned and marched back out of the room.

_ Alright, Hawke, you can do this. If you can heal yourself from the Arishock’s sword strike, you can handle this. _

The mage took a deep breath and let his magic flow out into Meron’s body and inwardly braced for the task that lay ahead of him. 

* * *

“This is insane,” Varric hissed.

The dwarf sat on the far bank of the lake surrounding Goldenglow Estate. Surveillance was one of Varric’s strong suits and by the Maker if this place wasn’t a nightmare mark. 

Thugs partrolled every inch of the property and there were only two primary entrances. The third entrance from beneath the estate was going to be his best bet unless he could figure something out to get him in through the main gate.

“Aye,” Brynjolf chuckled from just behind the rogue. “Now you see why we are having such a time getting in there. How we almost lost Vex.”

“Yeah,” Varric muttered, sitting back. “And now you want me to give it a go. How very thoughtful of you.” 

“I wouldn’t have asked it of you if I didn’t think you’d be able to do it, Lad.” 

Varric rolled his eyes, “I don’t suppose reminding you for the fiftieth time that I am no ‘lad’ would get you to stop calling me that?”

Brynjolf laughed quietly, “Sorry, Varric. It’s just a habit of mine. I call everyone lad and lass.”

“Hmm, well I’m in the habit of nicknaming everyone I know so watch out for some retribution one of these days when I figure out what to call you.” 

“I think I’ll be able to manage,” the redhead retorted, grinning. “Now then, what are your thoughts on Goldenglow. You want to give the sewer entrance a go?”

“No. I don’t, but I may not have much of a choice. Let me poke around in town tomorrow though, see about any upcoming shipments I can charm my way in with or something.” 

“They typically have an import of jars and the like once a month. The next shipment should be within the ten days time.”

“Any idea where this caravan comes from?”

“‘Tis high quality glass,” Brynjolf mussed, “so it would either be coming from Whiterun or Solitude. Either way, there is only one main road that leads to the estate. We could camp out along there and attempt to intercept them...it’s not a bad idea!” 

“Yeah...hey, if you knew about the shipments, why haven’t you attempted to get in on them before?”

“Most of us are a little too well known to be able to slip in unnoticed, Varric. You on the other hand might just be able to,” Brynjolf said with a wink. 

“Yeah but I have a face that’s hard to forget.” Another sigh escaped the dwarf. “Alright, that settles it then I guess. I will see about getting in the front door first...Maker protect me.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Brynjolf said, smacking Varric on the back. “Now come along. It’s time you met the rest of the family and got settled in.”

So it was that Varric followed Brynjolf back down into the bowels of the sewers beneath the city of Riften and to the home of the Thieves Guild. They passed through the same area that they had originally entered and through a concealed door which led out into a common area of sorts. There was a modest bar set up along one wall and a scattering of tables and crates in place of furniture further in. To Varric’s surprise most of the seats were actually full. 

“Super time, the perfect time to get acquainted with the others,” Brynold said to the dwarf. Then the redhead cleared his throat and called out, “Lads and Lasses, this is Varric the Eye. He and I became associated during my vacation in Windhelm. He’s part of the family now so treat him as such.”

“Errrr, thanks,” Varric muttered as he attempted to memorize which faces smiled and which ones glared at the announcement.

“Varric,” the man named Delvin called out, motioning to the dwarf. “There’s a seat at my table, come on. I’m sure you could use a break from Brynjolf and his mouth. Swear to Nocturna he hasn’t shut his face from the moment Vex got him out o’ his cell!”  
Varric chuckled as he pulled himself into the seat beside Delvin.

“Hungry eh,” the shaven headed man asked, motioning to the man behind the bar. 

“I could use a bite to eat,” Varric said.

“Vekel, grab the man some roasted pheasant and a mug o’ ale, on me,” Delvin added.

The man named Vekel nodded and turned to fetch the meal. He rounded the bar and delivered it to Varric with a pleasant grin. 

“Name’s Vekel the Man,” the human said, extending a hand to Varric.

Varric shook the man’s hand.

“A pleasure.”

“You need anything,” Delvin said, pointing at Vekel. “You see ‘im or Tonilia there,” he then motioned towards a woman sitting further back on the makeshift pier. “Between the two o’ ‘em, you could have the whole of Skyrim in your pocket, mark my words.”  
“Good to know,” Varric said, as Vekel moved on to his next patron. “Any other friends I should know about? Or anyone not so friendly?”

“You met Vex, she’s a spitfire,” Delvin said, sounding overly fond. “You’d do well to befriend Cynric, that one there. Master of jailbreaking, might need ‘im at some point in your career. Only one I’d tell you to steer clear of is Dirge, there. He’s Vekel’s muscle and about as friendly as a skeever.” Delvin chuckled to himself as he took a swing of ale. “Smells like one too.” 

“Noted,” Varric said, as he tucked into his meal. As the others around him fell back into their usual chatter he picked up a bit of information here and there. Most of the discussion was business related. Which ‘jobs’ had been completed, by whom and how well they had gone. There was also a recurring lament amongst the general populous about the ‘lack of luck’ they seemed to be suffering. 

One member even mentioned something about a curse?

A curse of bad luck.

Now that sounded familiar. 


	11. Paper Scissors Rocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is a force mage.  
Chances of him force choking Ulfric in this chapter?  
Varric will be collecting bets in the cistern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you start writing something and where you want to go is so clear, but getting there feels like a jumbled mess? That's me with this fic for some reason. Oh well, I'm trying to not be such a stickler for canon, plot, etc. and going to focus more on having fun with this project. Here's hoping that taking a new outlook will help me post a little more regularly.

_ “Yes...Talos, yes!” _

_ Meron’s hips moved in a ceaseless roll, carrying them up and down on the handsome man beneath them. The human moaned, hips thrusting hard and fast. His head was rocked back on the furs beneath him, eyes closed in absolute ecstasy. _

_ The mer reached for the headboard, fingers curling around the slim blade they had hidden in one of the ornate grooves carved there. _

_ The man’s hands suddenly gripped their hips, startling Meron who looked down to find the man smiling up at them warmly. Their hands softened as he said, “You are wondrous...Stay with me? Here in my home? I could give you everything you have ever wanted. You wouldn’t have to do this for money anymore.” _

_ For the briefest moment Meron’s grip on the blade softened. _

_ A warm bed with a warm body and a hot meal every day. No more killing or running or thieving... _

_ Then they remembered why they were here. The mangled corpse of a Dunmer found on the hillside just beyond this manor. One of several shallow graves, each filled with the body of a mer. Elves were just play things to these Nords. If they stayed, they would be used until the human grew bored and then they would be discarded just like all of the others. _

_ Meron smiled as they lowered their lips to the human’s. _

_ “I will stay with you until the day you die,” the mer murmured as they shoved the blade between the man’s ribs and into his heart. _

Meron awoke with a jolt, gasping in a ragged breath as an unexpected thrill rippled through their lower body. They swore they could still feel the warmth of that long ago lover on their hips. The mer shuddered and looked down, eyes widening as they found a familiar mage’s head resting on their thigh. 

“Dear sweet Dibella,” Meron choked out. “Hawke!?”

The mage shifted at the sound of his name, mumbling something incoherent as he rolled his head back around so that his still shut eyes faced towards Meron. The action had settled the human’s face directly on top of the mer’s most private parts and Meron flushed furiously in response.

“Hawke, _ wake up _,” Meron hissed, reaching down to tug on the handsome human’s unruly mop of hair.

“...mmmm,” the human hummed appreciatively, the sound rumbling all too pleasantly against the Dragonborn’s nethers. “Farkas…”

That made the mer pause. 

Oh ho! 

What had those two been up to without their presence to temper the flame?

Hawke shifted again, just enough so that Meron could tap their finger tips on the sleeping human’s face.

“Wake! Up!”

The mage grunted, warm eyes fluttering open then widening when they saw the elf was awake.

“Thank the Maker,” Hawke cried, surging up to wrap Meron in a tight hug. “I was afraid...I did not know if my magic would be enough!”

The elf was startled, touched by the emotion in the human’s voice. Meron hugged back, surprised to find that their shoulder felt only mildly tender.

“How fast did Farkas fold on me,” the mer asked, sounding amused.

“Just in time to save your life it seems,” Hawke said as he sat back. “You were in bad shape. Ulfric had sent a rider to find someone at the college who could help, they happened to run into us on the road.”

“And my heros rode their steeds into the earth to make it to my side just in time? I am flattered.”

“Actually, I rode with the soldier. Farkas had to walk. He should be here any moment I keep thinking.”

That made Meron frown. Farkas was not some helpless welp, but they still worried about him being out there alone on the mountain road.

“I should speak to Ulfric, demand someone be sent to collect him,” Meron said, beginning to sit up. 

As if summoned by the utterance of his name, Ulfric appeared in the doorway to the chamber. 

He looked terrible, Meron was happy to notice. Deep circles marked beneath his eyes. He seemed thinner somehow and his hair was nearly as disheveled as Hawke’s.

“You are awake,” the jarl said, sounding relieved.

“I am,” Meron said. “However, I find myself lacking another critical companion. He is…”

“I have already sent a man with a spare mount for your other friend,” Ulfric interjected levely. “The soldier who brought Hawke here mentioned him when they arrived. I expect them soon.”

“Oh,” Meron said, deflating a bit.

“Well,” Hawke said, standing and clapping his hands together. “This is all coming together marvelously! Farkas is nearly here, you are alive to receive him, there’s just one thing missing…”

Abruptly the mage whirled, and before Ulfric could blink, Hawke had him by the throat and slammed him against the wall as he snarled, “Where is Varric!”

“Hawke! Don’t,” Meron cried. “Varric isn’t here…”

“What,” the mage hissed, his grip tightening. 

The mer shook their head. “He escaped the dungeons days ago and if my hunch is correct I may know where he is.”

After a tense pause Hawke let go of Ulfric who sagged against the wall as he coughed for breath.

“I think he is with members of the Thieves Guild,” Meron continued. “They are not a popular guild, nor as revered as they once were, but if he is with them he will be safe.”

Hawke blinked then rolled his eyes. “Of _ course _ he escaped and fell in with a band of professional criminals!”

A knock at the door drew everyone’s attention. 

Galmar stood in the doorway frowning at the scene before him. 

“My Jarl, is everything…”

“Everything is _ fine _,” Ulfric said sharply as he straightened himself back up. “You have news, I take it?”

Galmar’s eyes coldly moved from Ulfric to roam over Hawke’s unapologetic face before he said, “Yes. The Companion has just arrived. Seeing as the Dragonborn has awoken, I assume I should bring him here?”

“I can show him the way myself,” Ulfric announced. “We will give our guests some time alone. They have much to catch up on I am sure.”

Ulfric led the way out with Galmar close behind. 

Once the human’s we’re out of ear shot Meron said, “As thrilling as that display was, you won’t get a second chance.”

“I know. Trust me, I wanted to concave his face the moment we met but I held back.”

“A sentiment I wholeheartedly understand.”

A few short minutes later the door to the room burst open and Meron suddenly found themselves wrapped up in the familiar arms of Farkas. 

The mer found tears in their eyes as the werewolf murmured into their hair about not being able to lose his best friend. And about how it was a good thing Hawke had been able to save them because he hadn’t wanted to have to rip Ulfric’s legs off and jam them in his ass, but he would have. 

“I love you too,” Meron laughed into the warrior’s neck. “Dibella, I have missed you both! Come, tell me of everything that has happened.”

Farkas stepped back to find a chair, which he held out for Hawke. The mage took the seat with a soft thank you, then the warrior found his own seat. Dutifully Farkas showed Meron the tombs they had recovered from Fellglow. The Dargonborn beamed as they ran their hands over the covers of each book. 

“You did well, my friends,” the elf said. “Perhaps we can return to the college now and put this Psijic Order business to rest. I am sorry that my own venture was not as successful.” 

“What happened, Meron.”

Farkas’ voice was low and soft as he asked his question. The elf flinched, gold-green eyes darting away as their fingers briefly clenched around the edges of the book in their hands. 

“I came to recover Varric,” the Dragonborn said levely. “Instead of successfully retrieving him as I had hoped, I found myself fighting a dragon in the outer courtyard of this keep. During the battle I was shot.” 

“By a stray arrow,” Farkas pressed.

Meron paused for a long moment, then bowed their head, “No. Someone attempted to assassinate Ulfric in the heat of the skirmish. I...intervened.” 

Hawke sat up slightly straighter at that.

“Why,” the mage asked.

“I do not know,” Meron admitted.

“Was it someone from the…”

“Farkas,” the elf abruptly snapped. Meron’s narrowed eyes briefly shifted to Hawke then back to the warrior. “You know better,” the mer hissed.  
Hawke felt a shiver of something sinister run up his spine. He looked between the Dragonborn and the warrior at his side. There was something in the elf’s eyes that made him uneasy.

“How was your audience with the jarl otherwise,” Farkas asked levely, seemingly unaffected by the elf’s flared temper.

Meron relaxed slightly and with a dramatic sigh began to recount that part of their venture. By the end of the tale the Dragonborn was struggling to stay awake.

“Sleep,” Hawke urged. “You will heal more quickly if you let your body rest, then we can be free of this place.”

The Dragonborn had been too tired to even argue and fell asleep only a few minutes later. 

Farkas and Hawke had just retreated to a table in the corner of the room to nibble on some stale bread when the castle mage appeared in the doorway.

“I am to relieve you both for a time,” Wuunferth informed the duo. “Two guards will stand watch at the door, as well as myself, while you are away,” he added quickly when Farkas moved to argue. “The Jarl requests that you dine with him this evening. Please, you both traveled far, and you,” Wunnferth said, directing his gaze to Hawke, “expended much of your strength healing the Dragonborn. You must eat if you hope to recouperate.”

The mage had a point, so reluctantly the duo left Meron to sleep and made their way down to the main hall of the keep. They were welcomed by the aroma of cooked meats and baked bread which set them both to salivating as they neared the already full table. Ulfric sat at the head, Galmar and his other officers surrounding him. The two seats to his immediate right were empty. The jarl stood when they entered the room and the talking subsided almost instantly.

“Honored guests, please, come sit at my table.”

Farkas led the way, pausing at the head of the table. The jarl’s eyes shifted to Hawke as he said, “It would honor me to have the savior of the Dragonborn at my side this day.”

Hawke took a sharp breath, and then bowed slightly. “Thank you, Jarl Ulfric,” the mage said with practiced grace, before moving to take the seat on the jarl’s immediate right. Farkas settled in beside Hawke, nodding his thanks to the jarl.

That said the others at the table resumed their chatter. Plates of meat, sauces, preserves, rolls and the like passed before Hawke in a dizzy swirl. He grabbed at what looked good and soon found himself tucking into his meal. Ale flowed freely and soon the others at the table had turned their attention from business and were pesting Farkas for tales of the Companions. 

“Come on,” an older soldier shouted from the other end of the hall. “Tell us of your ventures! It isn’t every day that we get to meet a member of the Companions, let alone one who has traveled with the Dragonborn!” 

Farkas sighed, though he was grinning, and Hawke got the sense that the warrior was used to such requests.

“What tale do you wish to hear? One of conquering a dragon? A journey through a cursed crypt?”

The tale Farkas told was one of a barrow near a village called Ivarstead. Hawke found himself hanging on the warrior’s every word as Farkas recounted Meron being beseeched by the local innkeeper to investigate the ancient tomb. Terrifying inhuman sounds echoing through what should have been the abandoned halls of the barrow had led the villagers to believe that the crypt was haunted and it fell to him and Meron to investigate. 

What troubled the barrow turned out to be a grave robber who had concocted a potion that enabled them to appear ethereal in order to keep villagers from troubling them while they searched the barrow for treasure. Unfortunately for the treasure hunter, the potion also drove them insane until they no longer knew if they were living or dead. Meron had taken pity on the man and dispatched him from his waking nightmare, before discovering the very treasure that the robber had spent so long attempting to find.

The others at the table cheered to the cunning and prowess of the Dragonborn and Farkas in nearly equal measure. Then another took up a tale of their own ventures. 

And so the night wore on. 

A few hours, numerous stories and several tankards later Hawke found himself yawning. His belly sat heavy with food and the strain of bringing Meron back from the brink of death still left him feeling drained. There was also still the matter of Varric.

Was he truly safe?

Fingers suddenly wrapped around Hawke’s left wrist, startling him as his gaze swung around to meet with Ulfric’s. The jarl nodded at him, his own eyes weary beyond measure. 

“The chambers beside the Dragonborn’s have been cleared for you and Farkas, should you wish to retire.” 

“Thank you,” Hawke said, allowing himself to relax just a bit.

“Are you tired,” Farkas asked from the mage’s right. 

Hawke pulled his arm away from the jarl as he turned to the warrior and nodded. 

“I seem to have stretched the limits of my abilities healing Meron. I should take my own advice and rest before I become the one causing us to delay.”

“I shall go with you,” Farkas said standing. 

Hawke nodded, grateful for the warrior’s presence as they began to traverse the unfamiliar hallways of the keep. They walked in silence until abruptly Hawke said, “I do not like the idea of Meron being without us close at hand right now.”

Farkas nodded, “I agree.” 

“Would it cause trouble if we were to demand to share the same room as Meron?”

“It shouldn’t. We are the traveling companions of the mighty Dragonborn afterall!”

“I suppose we are, aren’t we,” Hawke said with a smile. 

The duo fell into a brief silence for a few minutes. Suddenly Hawke felt Farkas’ hand close around his, pulling him to a stop. 

The mage turned back quickly, “Everything alright?”

Farkas nodded, then swallowed thickly.

“I need to...thank you. For what you did for Meron. They are my truest friend, my family, and you saved their life, even after we had lied to you and I just…” Farkas let out a broken little chuckle as he gathered himself together. “I already thought you were amazing, Hawke. Now I don’t even have words to express how I see you after all you’ve done.” 

“Farkas, of course I saved Meron! We are friends as well! We _ all _ are. I would never let anything happen to either of you if I could do anything to stop it.”

“You still consider us friends?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I,” Hawke asked, confused. 

“You told me about the _ friend _ you had who lied to you, the pirate. I did not think after I told you about our deception that you would want...I did not think things would remain the same?” 

Hawke gaped at the warrior before him, the cogs in his mind clicking deftly into place. 

“Farkas, this whole time, did you think I was mad at _ you _?!”

The werewolf nodded, “As you had every right to be.”

Hawke was stunned silent, then shook his head a wild smile beginning to spread his lips.

“I was _ never _ mad at you, Farkas. Not even for a second. I was mad at Ulfric Stormcloak!”

Farkas blinked, “Oh.” Then a grin made its way across the warrior’s face as he leaned in closer to the mage and said, “That’s good to know because I’ve been missing our conversations.” 

Hawke felt an involuntary shiver race up his spine. That flame was back, sparked to life in an instant as though it had never been put out. 

Hawke’s mind whirled back to the night of the almost kiss before darting back to their current state. The way Farkas was looking at him was how he had been before confessing about Meron’s trip to Windhelm. Keen eyes roamed his face, the warrior’s smile growing wider as Hawke felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“Come on,” Farkas said, standing back a bit. “Let’s get you to bed, Mage. I have a feeling we’ll be needing you in our coming ventures.” 

That said the towering warrior tugged Hawke along until they reached the chambers where Meron resided. They entered quietly and found the Dragonborn still fast asleep. Farkas let go of Hawke’s hand then and moved to the side of the bed. 

“You could probably just share the bed with Meron,” he informed the mage. “I’ll take up a chair near the door. Just in case anyone has the poor idea of visiting without permission.” 

Hawke gaped at Farkas, his eyes darting to the empty section of bed near the elf. 

Farkas chuckled, “If you think Meron and I have never crammed ourselves into one bed for warmth or comfort on the road, you’d be wrong. They won’t mind, Hawke, and you said yourself that you need rest.” 

While this was all technically true, it was still awkward. Then Hawke thought back to several of his adventures with Varric. They certainly had had no qualms about bunking together when the situation called for it. And Meron was a friend now, perhaps not as close as Varric, but a friend nonetheless. Hawke sighed, and made his way over to the bed. He crawled in beside Meron, who didn’t so much as flinch in response to the shifting of the bed or covers. 

Any trepidation Hawke had was forgotten as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Varric fell into his new ‘normal’ with surprising ease. After spending a few days gathering supplies and a few lesser known guild members to take the place of the caravan’s worker, the dwarf found himself on the road once again. 

Presently he rode at Brynjolf’s side, a place he often found himself these days, at the head of said requisitioned caravan. His mad plan had thus far gone well enough. They had taken over the supply wagon without bloodshed and in a remote enough area that it would take a few days for any word of disruption to get to the intended client.

Now, it was up to Varric to charm his way beyond the front gate.

A half a day’s ride from their mark, Brynolf broke off from Varric. Before he left he clapped a hand on Varric’s shoulder and said, “You will do well. And once you have that deed in my hand, your debt is paid. You will be free to reunite with your friend.”

Varric had nodded.

Everything depended on him now.


	12. No Good Deed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a spectacular chapter by any means, but it's something.

“Halt!”

Varric gently pulled the horses hauling the wagon to a stop, and quirked a brow at the mercenary who approached them. 

“Good morning,” he called out, quickly fishing the invoice Brynjolf had commandeered from the actual owner of the cart, and held the piece of paper out to the approaching man. “I have a delivery to be made, fifty crates of tempered glass jars, as usual. And I need to speak with Aringoth about his next shipment as well.”

The mercenary read over the invoice then nodded at two other men to check out the cart itself. Everything was in order, no tricks yet, so Varric kept his breathing even and his grip on the reins soft. 

“Looks good,” one of the mercenaries called out from the back of the cart. 

Their leader nodded, then eyed Varric up and down without speaking for a long minute. 

“Hand over any weapons you have, Merchant, and I shall take you to Aringoth.” 

Varric, fished a dagger from his belt and handed it over to the mercenary without complaint. He tossed the reins to another mercenary and climbed down from the wagon’s seat then nodded at the man glowering down at him. 

“Lead the way my good fellow.” 

Varric followed the mercenary into the estate house. He had counted twelve armed men roaming the grounds of the estate, two had been posted at the gate, and another two watched the front door. Varric tried to memorize the layout of the house and the number of mercenaries within as well. Two dining at a table just down the hall from the front door, two doors behind them, one closed and one open. He doubted that they would all be patrolling at the same time so it was probably safer to assume that whatever number of men he saw, there was actually double that. 

Not that he intended to fight anyone if he could manage it. 

Varric’s intention was to cozy up to this Aringoth, get a few drinks in the man, steal his keys, sneak his way into wherever a sensible businessman would hide the deed to his property and then get the hell out before anyone realized anything was wrong. 

Finally the mercenary paused outside of a large set of doors and motioned for Varric to wait there. The man knocked on one of the doors and a few moments later the heavy wooden structure shifted open an inch.

“Yes,” a voice hissed from the darkened room beyond.

“The merchant who brought your shipment, Master Aringoth, wishes an audience with you.”  
“Whatever for? I don’t deal with merchants, I deal with Belethor and he knows what I need. The orders never change.”

Varric cleared his throat and bowed low towards the unseen man.

“M’lord, if I might trouble you for a moment of your time. Belethor would have sent a courier but found it would be faster to have me make both the delivery of your wares and his message. It is a rather delicate matter that should perhaps be spoken about without an audience?”

Another pause.

Followed by a hissing scoff. 

“Fine,” Aringoth muttered as he shoved the door open wider. “Stay nearby,” he instructed the mercenary. Then he motioned for Varric to enter the chamber beyond. 

The dwarf nodded politely at the mercenary and the elf before making his way into the room. A study...no, it was certainly the estate owner’s bedroom from the looks of things.

“Are you not feeling well M’lord?” 

Aringoth let out a bitter, wild laugh as he shut the door behind him and shoved the heavy bolt back into place. 

“Can a man feel well when he has daggers aimed at his back?”

“That does not sound as if it would be uncomfortable,” Varric said easily. He took in Aringoth and felt a pang of pity as he surveyed the elf. Aringoth was dressed in all manner of finery but fine threads could not cover dark circles beneath the eyes or the thin drawn line of a mouth. The poor elf was clearly in distress. 

And Varric understood why.

Having the most powerful woman in the city one lived in turn her full fury upon you was quite the burden. 

Hell, he knew it first hand from living under Meredith’s vapid shadow in Kirkwall. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Aringoth said as he sank down onto a chair near a desk pushed into the corner of the room. “So, to business. What is it that Belethor sent you to tell me? Has Maven managed to bribe him into refusing to sell to me now as well?”

_ So that’s the game, she really does intend to ruin this poor sod? _

Varric carefully shook his head no.

“Belethor is confident that she does not yet know that he is the one supplying you, but...he has his concerns. He has heard rumors that Maven intends to relieve you of the deed to this very estate.”

It was a gamble, what Varric was going to attempt. He was weaving his story as swiftly as he spoke. His words seemed to stun Aringoth for a moment.

Then the elf sputtered a slew of expletives, rising and then falling back into his chair. 

“Someone did try to break in here,  _ tried _ ,” the elf said vehemently. “I have what amounts to a small army here. Maven can send as many thieves and cutthroats as she pleases, they’ll never get to anything!” 

Varric nodded.

“Yes, it seems you have taken every precaution. However, Belethor offers you another layer of protection. Maven obviously has every eye she has honed on you here. Send the deed with me. The guards there are not so easily pocketed as those here.” 

Aringoth stared at Varric as if he’d just told him to present himself to Maven wrapped in a pretty pink bow. 

“You’re serious,” the elf said, tone hollow. Then he began to laugh. 

Varric attempted not to flinch at the sound of the harsh rasping cackle of a madman. 

_ ‘Maker’s tits, Brynjolf, what did I let you get me into?’ _

“My choices have been reduced to the utter insanity of standing against Maven Blackbriar, or risk finding an arrow in my neck.”

“The thieves guild isn’t known for murdering people are they?”

“No,” Aringoth said. “But I have no idea about…” The elf grew silent and Varric knew that look. The elf had had enough. He was either about to be tossed out on his arse or…

“I cannot give you what I do not have,” Aringoth said, standing and straightening his robes. He turned to his desk and produced a key from the folds of his clothing and opened a lockbox hidden behind a false panel in the backing of the desk. He snatched a carefully folded stack of papers from within the box and turned to Varric, hand outheld.

“Tell Belethor to reach out to Gulum-Ei in Solitude regarding all future business as I no longer own Goldenglow. I’ve had enough of Maven and her thugs for a lifetime. I’m leaving this shithole city while I still can!”

“You don’t own the estate,” Varric repeated, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. 

This is not how the job was supposed to go. 

“Not anymore. I don’t even know who does. I was approached by Gulum-Ei a few months ago and given those papers along with enough gold that I was able to foolishly forget Maven’s tenacity. Whoever does, they don’t want me dealing with Maven or the Guild. It would seem that their little hovel has finally drawn the ire of someone powerful enough to know where to hit them and follow through with it. Now get out of my chambers!” 

* * *

  
  


Meron awoke slowly. Their entire body ached as they stretch themselves beneath the pleasantly warm furs nestled around them. The mer opened their eyes and instantly gold-green orbs widened. On their right was Garrett Hawke. The mage slept deeply still, his large frame separated from Meron’s by a pillow, undoubtedly placed by the healer for decency's sake.

“I told him you wouldn’t mind.”

Meron turned their head to find Farkas laying on their left. The warrior’s eyes were barely open, an indication that he had remained awake most, if not all of, the night to watch over them all. 

The mer raised their brows as a mischievous grin pulled up their lips. 

“Oh, I’d never complain about being caught in bed between two large attractive men.” 

The delivery was as dry as dust.

Farkas laughed loudly enough that Hawke started awake at the sound.

“M-morning,” the mage stammered out as Meron turned to grin at him. “How are you feeling?” Even as he asked the question, Hawke’s hand moved over the rogue’s formerly wounded shoulder. His magic flooded out from his fingers, checking for any remnants of poison, any tissue left unmended in his initial rush to save the Dragonborn’s life. 

“Alive,” Meron says with a grateful sigh, settling back beneath the healing wave. “Sore,” they add with a small grimace. “But I suspect that is just the price I must pay for wandering so close to the brink of death.” 

Without looking, Meron can feel Farkas’s frown.

“Indeed,” Hawke agreed solemnly. “Otherwise, things seem to be in order.”

“Excellent, we can gather two more mounts and be on our way then!”

“I would prefer that you rest and regain your strength a few days more,” the healer said firmly. Unmoved when Meron turned an unbelieving face to gape up at him. 

“You expect me to languish ‘a few more days’ in the same keep as Ulfric Stormcloak! Farkas can carry me and I shall recuperate on horseback!” 

“I understand the sentiment, however, a warm bed and food will greatly expedite the process in a way that I fear sleeping against Farkas’s plate armor on horseback would not.” 

“What if he fed me intermittently,” Meron pouted, knowing that the answer would still be, no.

Hawke chuckled even as he sat up and stretched before exiting the bed. 

“Would you both like some breakfast? I’m sure I can manage to find us all something.”

“I can go with you,” Farkas offered, though he made no real move to abandon the bed. 

“You need to sleep, oh guard dog of mine,” Meron chided, even as they scooted over to make more room for Farkas’s considerable frame. “Hawke can handle breakfast.” 

The healer rolled his eyes at Farkas’s back, before disappearing through the doorway. 

A moment after Hawke’s footsteps had faded Meron shoved against Farkas’s shoulder, jaring the warrior awake. 

“Two, things,” the elf said glaring. “One, tell me everything that has happened while I was away between you and Hawke, because I  _ know _ something did. And two, I would prefer that we continue to spare Hawke the knowledge of my former guild. Are we understood?”

Farkas glared back at the Dragonborn.

“Meron, if Astrid and her brood have caught up to you, he needs to at least know what is coming.”

“It was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

Even as Meron said it, they swore they could hear the dry rasp of the Night Mother in the dark recesses of their mind. The mer shuddered and Farkas narrowed his eyes further. 

“Is  _ she _ speaking to you again? Is that how you managed to save Ulfric’s skin?”

Meron was sufficiently cowed by Farkas’s accusing tone. 

They shifted further beneath the furs and harrumphed their displeasure. 

“I thought that you were supposed to be the dumb brother?” 

At that Farkas chuckled, “Only when I am called upon to be so. And fine, I shall allow you to explain yourself to Hawke in your own time, but only as long as it doesn’t place him in danger. Since he isn’t here now, however, I’d like to hear the plain truth of what happened.”

Meron let out a long suffering sigh.

“A truth for a truth then?”

  
  


Hawke made his way along the winding corridors of the keep until he found himself in the main hall. He knew that the kitchens were close. Relying on his memory of which doorway the servants had trailed in and out of the night before he made his way down yet another twisting hall. 

He rounded a corner and heaved a contented sigh as he found the kitchen. The hearth was lit, something simmering in a pot hanging above the tempered flames. He could smell dough rising and the tang of ale fermenting in oak casks. 

“Oh! Good morning.”

The sound of Ulfric’s voice made Garrett instantly stiffen. He turned to find the Jarl leaning over a counter, carving a hunk of cheese.

The mage nodded in response and the Jarl sighed, eyes falling shut in a grimace.

“I understand your anger towards me. I am glad we are alone as I wanted to apologize to you. I should have listened to Varric when he arrived here. Taken him in and treated him as a visitor instead of a pawn. I was blinded by my devotion to my cause and I made a mistake.”

It was hard to say.

Harder still to bear the silence that followed his words, but Ulfric was not about to take them back. He knew what he had done, this was simply what he must now do. The consequences of it all were then his to bear.

Hawke stared at the Jarl for a long moment considering the man’s words.

True enough he was still livid about what had happened to Varric. It was a worry that would not rest until he saw that his friend was safe with his own eyes.

Then there was Meron, ripped from the brink of death by his will and magic alone. Meron seemed to despise Ulfric, and yet had placed the jarl’s life before their own.

And then, there was Jarl Ulfric himself.

A commander embroiled in a war that battered his entire country. A war that he believed he needed to win for the betterment of his people, or so he said.

Hawke was loathed to make the comparison, but Ulfric was not unlike Cullen in his own way.

The handsome Commander of the Inquisition had his own faults. Had made terrible mistakes. And yet, he had drawn his sword and faced Meredith alongside them. He had made the distinction between his own injustices and the rooted prejudice it had caused, and what was ultimately right. 

Could others not do the same?

_ ‘You have quite the heart, Garrett Hawke…,’ _ Farkas’s voice echoed in the mage’s memory, warm and fond.

The healer let out a huff of breath as he shook his head.

“The Dragonborn will need to rest a few more days,” Hawke informed the jarl, ignoring the olive branch extended towards him. He couldn’t fathom forgiving Ulfric, not until he had Varric safely back at his side. 

Ulfric turned to meet the mage’s gaze and something passed between the two of them. 

Then the jarl nodded and motioned for the mage to come closer. 

“You are all welcome to remain as long as you need,” Ulfric said as he moved on to begin carving a piece of cured meat. “I suppose you are all hungry? Help yourself to whatever you can find,” the warrior said, sweeping an arm out towards the kitchen. “I think that the cooks have oatmeal steaming over the fire.”

“What are you having?”

The jarl paused, glancing at the tray beneath his hands.

“It is tradition to have a tray of meats, cheeses, bread and perhaps some vegetables dipped in honey and oil for breakfast. It is a small comfort that I missed terribly during my time as a...when I was a soldier on the road.” 

Garrett’s eyes roamed the tray and the scarred hands that held it.

The spread looked quite appealing, much more so than the oatmeal simmering in the hearth.

“Perhaps you could show me how to prepare such a spread? The Dragonborn and Farkas are both bound to have healthy appetites after the events of yesterday.”

“I can imagine,” Ulfric said, his tone oddly soft for a man so gruff looking. “Grab that cut of pork hanging over those casks.”

* * *

Varric left the estate and took the cart towards Riften’s main gate. He left the now empty cart at the stable without bothering to alert the stable master or his assistant, and then slowly made his way into the town. 

He knew that Brynjolf and Mercer would be awaiting his report in the Cistern but what was he supposed to say?

_ ‘Hello gentlemen! The estate Maven is intent on destroying isn’t actually owned by her old business associate. But don’t worry, I have the paperwork showing absolutely nothing pertinent regarding the new actual owner. I guess that makes us even, I shall be on my way then!’ _

Varric sighed as he surveyed the town.

He supposed he could run.

Although, if his escape from Windhelm was any indication, perhaps he should avoid such undertakings until he had a better lay of the land. 

No choice then.

The dwarf took the path through the graveyard and down into the depths of the guild headquarters. He slipped through the Ragged Flagon, avoiding the few people who would be bound to pester him about his success at Goldenglow, and into the Cistern. He moved in measured strides as he approached Mercer’s desk.

Brynjolf stood nearby, his face breaking into a wide smile when he spotted Varric.

“There he is,” the redhead called out, arms wide in welcome. “And nary a hair out of place. I told you, Mercer,” Brynjolf said as he clasped the guild master’s shoulder.

“I did indeed make my way into the estate without issue. However, I did not find exactly what you had hoped.”

“What do you mean,” Mercer hissed.

Varric hid his flinch at Mercer’s tone and dug the stack of documents out of his coat pocket. He tossed them onto the desk. 

“There wasn’t a deed to be found. I did, however, get those as well as confirmation from Aringoth himself that…”

“He’s sold the estate,” Mercer growled, crumpling the parchment in his fist.

“Yeah, and he didn’t even know who he had sold it to. There’s a name in those papers, some middle-man who handled the whole transaction. That’s what I could get, all things considered.” 

Mercer let out a slew of expletives as he whirled and paced away from his desk. 

Varric watched the man go and then sided up to Brynjold.

“So, I made it in. And I made it out. We’re even right?”

The redhead frowned as he turned to look at Varric. Then Brynjolf’s eyes softened as he sighed.

Your pay,” the redhead then said, his tone all business as he produced a sack of coins and passed it to the dwarf. “I have a feeling that Mercer will want someone to meet with Gulum Ei…”

“Brynjolf!”

Vex’s voice drew the redhead’s attention in an instant. The big rogue moved to intercept the blonde woman,his brow furrowed at her tone.

“What is it, Vex?”

“News from Windhelm. Apparently the Dragonborn nearly died on Ulfric Stormcloak’s doorstep, but rumor has it that a powerful mage, from outside of the college, brought them back from the brink of death. Maven wants us all to be on high alert in case Elisif decides to capitalize on this series of events and march her men north.”

The redhead turned to glance back at Varric and then back at the blonde.

“Thank you, Vex. I will let Mercer know as well.”

Varric did not like the look that Brynolf had sent him. He liked the look on the redhead’s face as he approached him even less. 

“Looks like the road between here and Windhelm may become rather dangerous for a while. You could easily line your pockets doing some jobs for us here until it is safer for you to travel. Think it over, Lad.” 


End file.
